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A  TALE  OF  A 
WALLED  TOWN 

AND  OTHER  VHP  ^S 


BY 

B.  8266, 


PENITENTIARY 


ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


A  TALE  OF  A  WALLED  TOWN 


A  TALE  OF 
A  WALLED  TOWN 

AND   OTHER  VERSES 

BY 
B.  8266, PENITENTIARY 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 

WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 


PHILADELPHIA   AND  LONDON 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

1921 


COPYRIGHT,  IQ2I,  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 


PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

AT  THE  WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PRESS 

PHILADELPHIA,  U.  8.  A. 


DEDICATE  TO 
MRS.  JANE  H.  GATES 

(Our  "  Lady  with  the  Lamp  ") 

So  weary  of  the  long  Gethsemane, 

We  lift  sad  eyes  unto  the  stars,  and  cry, 

"  O  Lord,  how  long?  "  and  none  doth  make  reply. 

And  there  abideth  That  we  might  not  flee, 

Though  all  the  roads  of  all  the  world  were  free 

To  us  again;  yet  will  not  mem'ry  die 

Of  all  the  old-loved  faces  once  were  by, 

And  all  that  might  have  been  and  may  not  be: 

For  that  our  Doubting  Castle  is  most  strong; 

And  ever  faithful  warder  is  Despair. 

Aye  when  our  nights  are  darkest,  days  most  long, 

Our  "  Lady  with  the  Lamp  "  doth  enter  there, 

And  we  that  were  but  outcast,  broken  men, 

After  that  passing  walk  erect  again. 


THE  AUTHOR'S  THANKS  ARE  DUE  THE  FOL 
LOWING  PERIODICALS  FOR  THEIR  KINDNESS  IN 
ACCEDING  TO  THE  REPRINTING  OF  VERSES 
WHICH  HAVE  APPEARED  IN  THEIR  COLUMNS: 
LIFE,  NEW  YORK  TIMES,  JUDGE,  THE  POPULAR 
ENGINEER,  THE  PUBLIC  LEDGER,  PHILADEL 
PHIA,  THE  CATHOLIC  STANDARD  AND  TIMES 


INTRODUCTION 

Poetry  too  seldom  comes  out  of  the  detached 
experience  of  the  singer.  When  it  does  it  gains  by 
something  which  even  the  most  passionate  dreams 
cannot  supply.  It  is  when  life  hurts  most  that  poetry 
appeals  deepest,  and  a  record  of  what  the  poet  pays 
is  an  expression  of  the  greatest  human  significance. 

"  B.  8266 Penitentiary,"  has  paid  the  price 

with  the  songs  in  this  book,  about  which  I  want  to 
say  a  word  of  the  highest  commendation.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  first  his  Number,  by  which  his  identi 
fication  is  lost  to  the  world  and  becomes  part  of  a 
system,  and  later  his  name,  will  be  added  to  that  list 
of  "  immortal  unfortunates  "  who  from  Raleigh 
down  through  Christopher  Smart  and  Oscar  Wilde 
to  the  late  "  Prisoner  of  Pentonville,"  have  bright 
ened  literary  history  by  the  expression  of  their 
fates  in  verse.  "  The  Song  of  David,"  "  The  Bal 
lad  of  Reading  Gaol,"  "A  Tale  of  a  Walled 
Town,"  however  they  may  vary  in  method  and  sub 
ject,  all  spring  from  the  same  profound  source  of 
human  complexity,  that  has  been  too  profoundly 
and  hurtfully  touched  with  the  circumstances  of  an 

7 


ironic  world,  and  the  subtle  threads  of  personal  des 
tiny.  I  do  not  say  that  "A  Tale  of  a  Walled  Town" 
is  as  great  a  poem  as  either  of  the  other  two,  but  I 
do  say,  that  nothing  that  I  recall,  ranks  between 
them  and  the  poem  of  B.  8266,  and  that  behind 
the  latter  is  a  long  descent  to  any  similar  accom 
plishment.  This  is  evidence  enough  that  the  author 
is  a  figure  of  extreme  importance. 

B.  8266  is  a  long-term  prisoner  in  the  Peni 
tentiary  of  one  of  the  great  Eastern  States.  I 
want  to  make  clear  that  he  is  real,  and  that  these 
poems  are  the  products  of  such  a  man,  because  the 
reader  may  doubt  his  authenticity  after  reading 
this  book.  I  know  that  he  is  real  because  I  have 
seen  him  and  talked  with  him,  and  found  a  man  of 
great  personal  charm,  and  with  a  passion  for  and 
knowledge  of  literature  that  I  have  found  in  the 
possession  of  very  few  individuals.  I  cannot  give 
his  real  name,  though  I  know  it,  and  there  are  some 
facts  about  his  life  I  cannot  reveal,  though  the 
knowledge  of  them  has  explained  for  me  a  good 
many  things  in  the  poems. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  early  March  day  that 
I  stepped  through  the  door  in  the  sombre  granite 
walls  of  the  prison  and  saw  the  yellowish-green 
stalks  of  the  tulips  for  the  first  time  this  spring 
glowing  from  the  earth  in  the  prison-yard.  They 
struck  me  as  symbolic  of  the  flower  of  song  that 
was  pushing  up  from  the  dark  soil  of  experience 

8 


within  that  huge  pile  of  sombre  stone  which  Soci 
ety  had  erected  around  the  lives  of  those  who  were 
spending  their  days  within.  I  went  up  to  the  war 
den's  office  to  meet  the  prisoner-poet  with  the  feel 
ing  that  there  was  to  be  found  in  his  spirit  a 
promise  not  unlike  the  promise  of  the  tulips  I  had 
seen  for  the  first  time  this  spring  down  in  the  pris 
on-yard. 

When  the  man  came  into  the  warden's  office  and 
lost  the  first  shyness  of  greeting  strangers  from  the 
world  outside,  he  brought  into  the  place  a  feeling 
that  came  from  the  vistas  of  his  dreams  and  vis 
ions  and  not  from  the  cramped  and  monotonous 
atmosphere  of  the  narrow  prison  cells.  I  found 
a  man  who  confessed  to  be  reading  Wells's 
"Outline  of  History"  with  a  gusto  and  a  freedom  of 
discrimination  that  seemed  to  me  to  match  Wells's 
writing  of  that  iconoclastic  chronicle  of  human 
events  and  characters.  I  found  the  prisoner  a  man 
who  was  a  bit  of  a  rebel  against  literary  traditions, 
and  who  found  the  intolerable  domination  of  some 
of  the  classical  authors  difficult  to  account  for.  It 
was  delicate,  and  a  bit  embarrassing,  for  me  to 
touch  upon  almost  any  subject  because  I  had  a 
notion  that  the  meaning  would  in  some  subtle  way 
get  around  to  the  personal  relation  of  the  man  to 
his  position.  I  didn't  mean  to  have  the  weight  of 
Society,  if  I  could  help  it,  force  any  thought  or  ex 
pression  to  point  the  accusing  finger  of  either 

9 


sympathy  or  of  moral  sentiment  at  his  naked 
penance.  I  saw  only  a  free  spirit  through  whom 
the  man  escaped  with  me  into  the  unconfined  world 
of  beauty  and  song.  There  was,  I  recalled,  a  note 
in  his  poems  that  had  struck  me  as  unusual  for  one 
whom  circumstances  had  placed  in  his  position, 
and  this  was  a  general  lack  of  morbid  introspection 
in  the  poems.  I  mentioned  the  fact,  and  the  com 
ment  was,  I  confess,  a  little  startling,  for  B.  8266 
informed  me  that  he  was  a  humorist.  God 
Almighty,  I  thought,  has  been  cruel  to  humorists, 
the  men  who  not  only  made  His  sometimes  intoler 
able  and  tragic  world  livable  for  the  human  beings 
He  put  into  it,  but  themselves  endured  it  by  virtue 
of  being  able  to  laugh  at  the  ruins  it  made  of  His 
best  purposes ;  and  that  warden's  office  was  lit  by 
that  remark  with  the  spirit  of  all  the  great-hearted 
men  who  brought  salvation  to  the  soul  of  man  with 
laughter.  It  was,  of  course,  another  way  of 
B.  8266  saying  that  he  was  a  philosopher,  and  was 
looking  at  life  from  his  hidden  corner  of  it  with 
fortitude  and  charity.  He  confessed  his  favorite 
authors  among  the  ancient  writers  were  Aristoph 
anes  and  Ovid,  which  are,  one  need  scarcely 
comment,  rich  storehouses  from  which  to  draw  the 
substances  of  a  sane  understanding  of  this 
muddled  world. 

On  contemporary  literature  B.  8266  talked 
with  the  familiarity  and  enthusiasm  of  one  who  sat 
in  some  cosy  bookish  room  rather  than  in  the  war- 

10 


den's  office  of  a  massive  State  Penitentiary.  The 
man  thrilled  with  literary  gossip.  As  an  example 
of  the  close  contact  he  keeps  behind  those  forbid 
ding  gray  walls  of  his  prison,  I  shall  quote  from  a 
letter  he  wrote  me  shortly  after  my  visit.  "  So  many 
magazines,"  he  writes,  "  have  lately  offered  them 
selves  as  a  forcing-house  for  youthful  genius !  I'm 
strong  for  '  Opal '  and  Hilda  Conkling,  but  the 
Ashfords  and  Master  Wades,  well,  they'll  probably 
wind  up  in  some  literary  side-show.  I  have  very 
often  been  resentful  of  the  sternness  with  which 
my  budding  genius  (  !)  was  repressed  in  the  days  of 
my  youth,  but  perhaps,  I've  really  gained  by  it.  It 
certainly  would  be  regrettable  if  Hilda  Conkling 
should  suffer  from  a  too  early  development  of  her 
powers.  Her  three  poems  in  the  latest  issue  of  the 
Literary  Digest  should  be  proof  enough  that  hers 
is  a  very  real  Pegasus."  At  present  B.  8266  is,  he 
says,  "  working  on  a  novel,  dealing  with  the  woman 
in  politics,  which  I  hope  to  complete  this  year." 

What  of  the  poetry  of  this  man  who  one  can 
see  is  no  ordinary  individual!  I  venture  to  say 
that  it  has  an  importance  that  cannot  be  dupli 
cated  at  present  in  American  literature.  There 
has  not  been  any  such  searching  revelation  of  a 
man's  soul  under  the  circumstances  as  is  made  in 
the  long  poem  "A  Tale  of  a  Walled  Town,"  which 
opens  the  book.  In  this  narrative  B.  8266  tells 
the  story  of  a  man's  life,  the  pitiful  childhood,  the 

rudderless  youth,  the  love  that  came  with  man- 

11 


hood  for  the  woman  who  became  the  evil  star  of 
his  destiny.  For  this  woman,  through  his  passion 
for  her,  the  man  rifled  the  costly  possessions  of 
others  to  satisfy  her  rapacious  hunger  for  lux 
uries.  As  he  sings, 

I  would  have  heaped  her  rubies  red 
As  any  heart's  blood  ever  shed ; 
Pearls  would  make  a  Thai's  dead ; 
Made  diamonds  fall 

In  costlier  rain  than  Danae  knew 
On  head  and  hands  and  bosom,  too ; 
To  sparkle  there  like  morning  dew, 
On  lilies  tall. 

Apprehended  for  his  thefts  he  was  sent  to  prison 
for  seven  years,  and  on  being  released  returned  to 
find  his  wife  another  man's  mistress.  Then  it  was, 
the  poem  relates,  he  committed  the  deed  for  which 
he  is  now  paying  the  penalty.  No  one  can  read 
this  poem  without  feeling  its  deep  sincerity,  its 
utter  and  humble  penitence,  its  passion,  its  intense 
and  vibrant  sense  of  human  tragedy.  The  poet 
employs  an  effective  reiteration  of  the  words 
"Toll  slowly,"  which  never  permits  one  to  escape 
from  the  background  and  atmosphere  out  of 
which  the  narrative  pieces  itself  together  from  the 
veiled  memories  of  the  past.  It  is  as  much  a 
"tale"  of  a  "walled  town,"  as  it  is  the  inquisition 
of  a  man's  conscience,  which  has  passed  through 

12 


the  fire  of  pain  and  shame  and  come  out  so  tem 
pered  as  to  look  truth  unflinchingly  in  the  face 
with  its  secrets.  Whatever  a  man  has  done  for 
which  he  may  or  may  not  deserve  the  punishment 
that  Society  inflicts,  it  is  a  kind  of  martyrdom 
of  the  spirit  for  one  to  sing  in  spite  of  the  oppres 
siveness  that  is  contained  in  the  description  of 
the  prison: 

Ours  is  a  grimy  bit  of  blue ; 

And  very  small ; 
And  sunbeams  scarce  adventure  to 

O'er  top  the  wall. 

A  bird  that  flutters  swiftly  by ; 
A  wind  that  passes  with  a  sigh ; 
A  cloudlet  sailing  slow  and  high ; 
And  that  is  all. 

0  matins,  and  0  vesper  bells, 

Toll  slowly! 

A  city  of  a  thousand  cells — 
A  thousand  individual  hells. 

And  can  there  be  anything  more  illuminating  and 
at  the  same  time  more  pathetic  than  the  wistful 
declaration  of  the  following : 

They  know  but  little  of  desire 

Who  know  no  wall ; 
But  we  who  sit  by  no  hearth-fire 

Do  know  it  all — 
13 


The  fierce  desire  to  see  and  know 
Home  faces  and  the  home-fire's  glow ; 
All  that  we  let  so  lightly  go, 
And  would  recall. 

I  can  say  with  the  heartiest  conviction  that 
this  poem  of  and  from  a  "  walled  town  "  deserves 
to  be  famous,  and  famous  not  alone  because  it  is 
a  felicitously  sung  story  of  a  man's  shadowed 
life,  but  also  because  it  chants  the  aspirations  of  all 
those  maimed  and  broken  inhabitants  of  the 
"  walled  town."  With  particular  satisfaction  for 
the  essential  soundness  and  humane  disposition  of 
this  unusual  prisoner  one  should  note  this  fact: 
The  poet  and  the  prophet  in  him  were  already 
alive  and  stirring  before  a  violation  of  the  law 
had  taken  away  his  freedom.  The  poem  closes  on 
an  impressive  note  of  hope  and  righteousness : 

O  better  far  that  death  should  be 
Of  every  crime  the  penalty, 
Than  such  creation  should  go  free 
At  any  time. 

Sly  devils  clothed  in  human  flesh; 

Toll  slowly! 

Whose  revellings  in  midnight's  hush 

Might  make  Abaddon's  self  to  blush. 

14 


Upon  a  wheel  of  solitude 
Are  men  bound  of  defiant  mood, 
And  broken ;  and  they  call  it  good, 
That  fear  doth  fall 

Upon  them;  and  no  more  again, 
They  stand  among  their  fellow-men, 
Straight-kneed,  and  level-eyed,  as  when 
They  passed  the  wall. 

What  agency  of  theirs  can  make 

Toll  sloivly! 

Anew  that  thing  they  idly  break 
Upon  a  wheel  for  order's  sake? 
May  God  forgive  them  the  mistake ! 

O  would  that  it  were  but  a  dream, 

Bred  of  the  night! 
To  waken  in  the  morning  gleam, 

And  see  the  light 

On  faces  that  we  loved  and  knew ; 
To  hear  a  lark  sing  in  the  blue, 
Or  bustle  of  the  avenue — 
God,  and  we  might ! 

might."  The  use  of  the  plural  pronoun  is  signifi 
cant  of  the  broad  sympathy  with  humanity  out  of 
which  this  very  poignant  poem  develops  along  with 
its  personal  moods  and  recitals. 

15 


The  miscellaneous  poems  that  follow  show  an 
unusual  variety  of  interests,  which,  after  all,  is  not 
so  surprising  when  one  stops  to  note  that  B.  8266 
is  not  a  "  prisoner  "  whom  the  dreary  confinement 
of  a  cell  has  forced  to  discover  a  way  of  escape  for 
the  mind  and  spirit  in  the  expression  of  verse,  but  a 
"  poet  "  whose  body,  circumstance  has  converted 
into  a  "  prisoner "  while  his  imagination  and 
dreams — uncapturable  elements — explore  mys 
teries  and  the  experience  of  life  and  the  world  with 
triumphant  freedom.  Thus  can  one  account  for  the 
many  songs  and  lyrics  that  bring  to  one  such  a 
vivid  sense  of  common  moods :  the  delights  in 
nature,  the  ideal  of  friendship,  the  tributes  that 
express  so  keenly  and  wistfully  the  gratitude  for 
kindliness  and  sympathy,  the  excellent  and 
speaking  description  of  scenes  and  places  that 
embody  memories  and  recall  associations,  and 
those  little  pictures  of  war  and  noble  sentiments 
of  patriotism,  which  so  often  with  felicitous  music 
and  grace  of  image  sing  in  these  pages.  Indeed, 
Lovelace's  immortal  declaration  that 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage — 

is  eloquently  applicable  to  this  "modern  prisoner" 
who  has  written  so  joyously  of  the  life  and  nature 
which  through  silent  and  lonely  years  have  been  as 
distant  to  him  as  the  other  side  of  eternity. 

16 


In  our  generation  B.  8266  has  written  the  best 
poem  on  the  American  flag  in  "  Flag  Day — 1920." 
Certainly  no  sincerer  tribute  (threaded  with  a 
pure  vein  of  personal  regret  for  not  being  able  to 
serve  one's  country),  to  a  fallen  hero  in  the  war, 
is  to  be  found  than  in  the  stanzas  "To  Captain 
David  Fallon,  M.  C.,  Anzac,  March  10, 1918.  Nor 
can  one  find  the  rugged  picturesqueness  of  rock 
and  wave  at  Cape  Ann  gilded  with  the  sudden 
glory  of  the  rising  sun,  so  arrestingly  and  com 
pactly  painted  as  in  the  sonnet  "Morning  at  Cape 
Ann."  The  pure,  soft  tones,  the  witchery  of  the 
dusk  in  "Nocturne,"  which  I  quote,  should  make 
many  a  famous  poet  envious  of  the  power  of 
enchantment  in  one  who  must  dream  of  the  fields 
at  dusk  from  the  lonely  and  empty  solitude  of 
a  prison-cell : 

Golden  the  firefly's  spark,  half-quenched  in  dew; 
Golden  the  stream  of  stars  flows  through  the  blue ; 
Plaintive  the  nightjar's  call,  wailing  its  mate; 
O  Philomela,  and  wherefore  do  you  wait? 
Milk-white    your    shoulders,    dear;    whiter    your 

breast ; 

On  such  silken  pillow  a  king's  head  might  rest. 
Sleep,  then,  all  odorous  of  myrrh  and  musk, 
My  Rose  of  all  the  world,  the  dusk,  the  dusk ! 

WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 
2  17 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTION    7 

A  TALE  OF  A  WALLED  TOWN 21 

IN  His  NAME 46 

FLAG  DAY— 1920 49 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE 51 

INDEPENDENCE  DAY,  1918    52 

MOTHER'S  DAY 54 

ORA  PRO  NOBIS 56 

RHEIMS:  1914 56 

MORNING  AT  CAPE  ANN 57 

IN  THE  WILDERNESS   : 58 

PITTSBURGH 58 

To  THE  CHOIR  OF  ST.  LAURENTIUS'  R.  C.  CHURCH 59 

ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  Miss  C 60 

To  EAMONN  DE  VALERA 61 

To  THE  SOCIETY  OF  JESUS 63 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  A.M.C.D 65 

To  J.  J.  M 66 

THE  WHISTLIN'  COLLEEN   68 

To  THE  LADIES  OF  SAN  DOMINGO  CHORAL  CLUB 70 

IMITATIONS  DE  CHRISTI    70 

To  THE  CHOIR  OF  ST.  STEPHEN'S  R.  C.  CHURCH 72 

To  THE  SODALITY  OF  THE  BLESSED  VIRGIN  MARY  OF  ST. 

STEPHEN'S  R.  C.  CHURCH 73 

To  THE  ORPHEUS  CLUB  OF  PHILADELPHIA 74 

To  THE  CATHOLIC  CHORAL  CLUB  OF  PHILADELPHIA 76 

"  THE  AMERICANS  COME!  "  77 

To  LITTLE  Miss  M  -   — 78 

To  CAPTAIN  DAVID  FALLON,  M.  C 79 

To  W.  R.  M 80 

IN  MEMORIAM  81 

To  THE  H.  F.  C 82 

To  CHOIR  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  ASYLUM   83 

19 


CONTENTS 

AD  MEMOBIAM   85 

ROADS  To  ARCADY  86 

EPITAPH  FOB  AN  AMERICAN  SOLDIER  88 

Hie  JACET  88 

THE  GATHERING  89 

THE  WOMAN'S  PART 91 

BEYOND  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS 92 

COMRADES  94 

MY  JEWELS 96 

ARAB  DEATH  SONG   98 

THE  QUESTION  99 

R.  S.  V.  P 100 

WHEN  WE  COME  HOME   101 

MY  MOTHER'S  SONGS 102 

THE  JUSTICE  OF  MEN   103 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  "  MCKENTYVILLE"   104 

THE  DESIRED  DOOR 106 

To  THE  BOY  CHORISTERS   106 

MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN   108 

UNFINISHED    108 

THE  MIRACLE  MAN   109 

THE  WOMAN  O'  T Ill 

EXCEPT  THE  LIGHT  KEEP  THE  CITY Ill 

THAT  "  SADDEST  WORD  "  APPLIES  112 

WASHINGTON  TO  AMERICA   113 

NOCTURNE  115 

ENOUGH'S  ENOUGH    116 

ART  Is  LONG    117 

THE  MOTHER  OF  INSPIRATION 117 

AT  TWILIGHT 118 

THAT  LITTLE  FLOCK 119 

HEAR,  O  ISRAEL  ! 120 

"  NEVER  To  SLEEP  AGAIN  " 120 

FALSE  DAWN 121 

20 


A  TALE  OF  A  WALLED  TOWN 

PROLOGUE 

Ours  is  a  grimy  bit  of  blue ; 

And  very  small; 
And  sunbeams  scarce  adventure  to 

O'ertop  the  wall. 
A  bird  that  flutters  swiftly  by ; 
A  wind  that  passes  with  a  sigh ; 
A  cloudlet  sailing  slow  and  high ; 

And  that  is  all. 

O  matins,  and  0  vesper  bells, 

Toll  slowly! 

A  city  of  a  thousand  cells — 
A  thousand  individual  hells. 

Their  walls  of  stone  and  bars  of  steel, 
So  cold  to  see  and  cold  to  feel, 
They  make  the  warmest  heart  congeal, 
Like  to  the  wall. 

And  therein  walk  the  living  dead, 
Their  hands  so  deeply  dyed  in  red, 
That  even  hope  from  them  has  fled, 
Beyond  recall. 

21 


And  when  the  midnight  wraps  it  round, 

Toll  slowly! 

What  grisly  shapes  stalk  up  and  down 
The  passages  of  that  walled  town ! 

A  dreadful  shape,  with  lolling  head ; 
A  ghastly  shape,  all  drenched  in  red ; 
A  loathly  shape,  but  lately  dead, 
And  'scaped  it's  pall. 

They  pace  adown  the  darkling  halls, 
And  beat  against  th'  unyielding  walls, 
And  stand  where  still  the  trap-door  falls 
On  gallows  tall. 

Then  wonder  not  that  sleepers  wake; 

Toll  slowly! 

And  in  the  chill  dark  sweat  and  quake, 
To  hear  a  door  or  wicket  shake. 

Never  a  soul  here  sped  hath  gone 
To  Heaven,  or  Hell,  but  lingers  on, 
Incarcerate,  till  Judgment-dawn 
Shall  top  the  wall. 

They  may  not  win  to  upper  air, 
Because  of  weight  of  guilt  they  bear ; 
And  they  are  doomed  to  linger  there, 
Within  the  wall ; 


And  see  new  dweller  in  their  place; 
Toll  slowly! 

And  newer  still,  until  God's  face 
Be  turned  to  them  in  wrath,  or  grace. 

They  know  but  little  of  desire 

Who  know  no  wall ; 
But  we  who  sit  by  no  hearth-fire 

Do  know  it  all — 

The  fierce  desire  to  see  and  know 
Home  faces  and  the  home-fire's  glow ; 
All  that  we  let  so  lightly  go, 

And  would  recall. 

CANTO    THE    FIRST 

It  matters  not  what  thing  I  did: 

Toll  slowly! 

I  deemed  the  thing  was  safely  hid, 
And  dared  to  walk  the  throng  amid. 

Justice  of  men  is  sure  to  smite — 
Jaws  of  a  trap  that  sudden  bite. 
I  walk  no  more  in  the  sunlight 
Without  the  wall. 

And  seven  bars  there  are  that  lie, 
Across  my  little  square  of  sky ; 
And  seem  to  bar  e'en  God  on  high, 
From  out  the  wall. 

23 


And  seven  bars  there  are  that  keep 

Toll  slowly! 

Me  safe  in  waking  and  in  sleep  ; 
And  if  I  curse,  and  if  I  weep. 

And  never  minute  goes  unseen ; 
And  never  hour  that  has  not  been 
All  that  the  twenty-four  might  mean, 
Without  the  wall. 

And  never  day  drags  slowly  by, 
But  that  I  see  a  century  die, 
And  am  most  sad  it  is  not  I 
Beneath  the  pall. 

And  never  night  that  does  not  bide, 

Toll  slowly! 

Until  methinks  that  time  has  died, 
And  with  it  all  the  world  beside. 

And  I,  within  a  whitewashed  room, 
That's  now  become  a  living  tomb, 
Must  lie  forgot  till  crack-of-doom 
Shall  end  it  all. 

And  lying  so,  last  night  I  heard 
That  some  dread  thing  a-near  me  stirred, 
Like  to  the  flutter  of  a  bird 
That  would  not  fall. 
24 


Perhaps  asleep,  perhaps  awake, 

Toll  slowly! 

I  lay,  in  ev'ry  limb  a-quake, 
The  while  a  thin,  dead  voice  spake : 


CANTO  THE  SECOND 


"  Seven  long  years  I  dwelt  herein, 

Toll  slowly! 

To  expiate  a  crimson  sin, 
And  never  did  to  freedom  win. 


Give  ear  unto  a  tale  I  tell, 
That  suits  both  place  and  hour  well ; 
And  hearing  which,  all  imps  of  hell 
Do  make  good  cheer. 

I  knew  no  mother's  face ;  nor  knew 
The  mother  love  that  was  my  due ; 
Yet  dreamed  of  such  the  long  years  through- 
And  never  did  the  dream  come  true, 
I  held  so  dear. 

My  father  took — like  fox — to  earth; 

Toll  slowly! 

And  it  was  cause  for  ribald  mirth, 
That  I  knew  neither  home  nor  hearth. 
25 


There  seemed  no  place  for  such  as  I — 
There  seldom  is,  beneath  God's  sky, 
'Twere  better  far  such  fruit  should  lie 
Behind  a  wall. 

Where  hard-faced  women  tended  me, 
In  paid  and  thankless  ministry; 
And  vain  it  was  to  them  to  flee 
For  aught  at  all. 

I  saw  beyond  the  bars,  and  knew 

Toll  slowly! 

That  one  might  laugh  there,  and  play,  too ; 
Nor  yet  go  walking  two-and-two. 

Yet  was  I  sheltered,  clothed,  and  fed ; 
And  o'er  me  endless  prayers  were  said, 
By  cold-eyed  ministers,  who  shed 
Their  fear  on  all. 

A  sparrow  once  a-near  me  lit ; 
One  told  me  that  God  cared  for  it ; 
I  wondered  did  He  care  one  whit 
And  I  should  fall. 

I  had  no  name — and  nameless  all 

Toll  slowly! 

Alike  were  those  behind  that  wall, 
Who  looked  out  at  a  steeple  tall. 
(I  wonder  that  it  did  not  fall.) 
26 


CANTO   THE   THIRD 

The  childless  couples  came  to  see 

Toll  slowly! 

And  pick  and  choose  of  such  as  we ; 
And  I  was  glad  that  one  chose  me. 

I  deemed  that  I  had  found  the  love 
I  craved  all  other  things  above ; 
And  I  was  happy,  and  I  strove, 
To  please  them  all. 

They  held  me  neither  son,  nor  guest, 
Nor  hired  servant — such  have  rest — 
But  I,  who  gave  them  of  my  best, 
They  held  their  thrall. 

They  took  me  for  their  household  drudge, 

Toll  slowly! 

To  fetch  and  carry — let  God  judge, 
I  have  no  art  to  hold  the  grudge. 

I  ate  the  bits  of  broken  meat ; 
I  ever  had  the  lowest  seat ; 
I  found  no  rest  for  weary  feet ; 
No  love  at  all. 

One  morning,  ere  the  stars  were  set, 
While  all  the  grass  with  dew  was  wet, 
I  fled  them — and  I  owe  no  debt 
To  them  at  all. 

27 


They  came  no  more  into  my  ken ; 

Toll  slowly! 

And  in  my  disillusion  then, 
I  turned  me  from  the  haunts  of  men. 

Long  years  I  wandered  up  and  down ; 
I  wandered  all  the  world  around ; 
In  ceaseless  travel  sought  to  drown 
The  wild  heart's  call. 

But  vain  it  was ;  and  then  I  thought 
To  win  by  toiling  that  I  sought ; 
And  long  and  lustily  I  wrought ; 
Grown  strong  and  tall. 

I  held  no  task  too  mean  to  do, 
Toll  slowly! 

And  full  delight  of  labor  knew ; 
And  had  men's  praise  in  fullest  due. 

CANTO   THE   FOURTH 

And  then  Love  came ;  and  in  that  hour, 

Toll  slowly! 

I  sensed  the  beauty  of  the  flower ; 
The  glory  of  the  Springtime's  dower. 

My  starved  heart  burgeoned  as  the  trees 
Bring  forth  their  buds  on  April's  knees ; 
Impregnate  all,  as  Auster  breathes 
Across  the  snow. 

28 


As  Adam  looking  on  the  sun ; 
Prometheus,  his  anguish  done ; 
Andromeda,  Perseus  come, 
In  morning's  glow — 

As  Balboa  when,  from  mountain  peak, 

Toll  slowly! 

He  saw  the  dawn  paint  ruddy  streak 
Across  Pacific;  as  the  Greek, 

Whose  cry  "  Thalassa !  "  from  the  mound 
To  all  his  comrades  far  around, 
Announced  the  long  endeavor  crowned 
And  triumphal — 

As  Gregory,  in  castled  state, 
And  Henry,  suppliant  at  his  gate — 
So  felt  I  when  I  knew  my  mate 
Had  heard  my  call. 

0  lovelier  than  tongue  can  tell! 

Toll  slowly! 

Like  royal  robes  about  her  fell 
The  silken  stuffs  she  loved  so  well. 

1  mind  me  not  her  follies  now, 
Remembering  the  sweet,  white  brow; 
The  ruddy  gold  above,  and  how 

A  curl  let  fall 

29 


Upon  her  neck's  white  column,  burned 
Against  its  snow,  as  though  there  turned 
To  purer  gold  than  that  of  learned 
Alchemists  all. 

For  her  I  would  have  scaled  all  heights ; 

Toll  slowly! 

Toiled  upward  all  my  days  and  nights ; 
Eschewed  not  Icarean  flights. 

CANTO    THE   FIFTH 

No  course  of  true  love  e'er  runs  smooth ; 

Toll  slowly! 

'Tis  but  the  false  is  shorn  of  ruth : 
An  old  wive's  tale  that  cannot  soothe. 

They  laughed  my  lover's  plea  to  scorn ; 
They  said  that  I  was  basely  born ; 
That  "  blood  will  out  " — on  some  far  morn, 
Woe  would  befall. 

I  might  not  look  upon  her  face ; 
I  might  no  tender  message  trace ; 
I  might  not  enter  in  that  place 
That  held  my  all. 

Think  you  I  was  content  with  this? 

Toll  slowly! 

When  I  had  tasted,  forego  bliss, 
Remembering  that  one  first  kiss? 
30 


I  sought  my  love  through  all  the  day ; 
I  sought  her  in  each  'customed  way ; 
I  found  her  in  the  evening's  gray, 
Where  lindens  tall 

Dropt  creamy  blossoms  down  the  swale; 
And  told  her  all  my  lover's  tale ; 
And  waited  then  her  verdict,  pale, 
And  trembling  all. 

Her  answer  was  that  I  had  guessed ; 

Toll  slowly! 

She  laid  her  head  upon  my  breast — 
And  that  kiss  I  remember  best ! 

A  warm  midnight ;  a  gibbous  moon, 
Half-hid  in  scud;  a  whistled  tune, 
'Neath  casement  ope ;  a  lover's  rune, 
The  sum  of  all. 

A  swift  flight  through  the  purple  dark ; 
Past  pools  of  moonlight,  white  and  stark ; 
And  no  sound  but  a  watch-dog's  bark, 
A  night-bird's  call. 

Ere  yet  the  summer  night  had  died, 
Toll  slowly! 

Ere  yet  the  clarion  cock  had  cried, 

The  hymeneal  knot  was  tied. 

(What  dearer  than  a  stolen  bride?) 
81 


CANTO   THE    SIXTH 

What  orisons  to  Love  we  said 

Toll  slowly! 

In  that  first  year  that  we  were  wed, 
Nor  guessed  how  quickly  he'd  be  fled ! 

Had  I  been  lord  of  wealth  untold, 
I  would  have  clad  in  cloth-of-gold, 
Picked  out  with  jewels  manifold, 
My  peerless  one. 

I  would  have  lifted  to  the  skies 
Gardens  surpassing  Paradise ; 
And  holding  all  that  beauties  prize, 
Beneath  the  sun. 

And  there  would  sing  for  her  delight, 

Toll  slowly! 

The  bulbul  all  the  day  and  night ; 
And  lark,  and  veery's  strain  unite, 
In  hymn  would  charm  an  eremite. 

And  there  I'd  shaped  a  faery  grot', 
In  chrysoprase  and  beryl  wrought ; 
And  thick  with  spinels  overshot, 
As  stars  let  fall. 

Slow-footed,  pacing  in  and  out, 
I'd  wove  me  then  such  charm  about 
That  garden  as  had  kept  without 
Life's  sorrows  all. 

32 


And  held  therein  all  things  of  joy; 

Toll  slowly! 

A  love  so  bold  and  yet  so  coy, 
As  not  eternity  would  cloy. 

I  would  have  heaped  her  rubies  red 
As  any  heart's  blood  ever  shed ; 
Pearls  would  wake  a  Thais  dead ; 
Made  diamonds  fall 

In  costlier  rain  than  Danae  knew, 
On  head  and  hands  and  bosom,  too ; 
To  sparkle  there  like  morning  dew, 
On  lilies  tall. 

I  think  she  loved  me  all  the  while. 

Toll  slowly! 

She  was  a  spoiled  and  petted  child, 
On  whom  all  folk  conspired  to  smile. 

CANTO    THE    SEVENTH 

I  clothed  a  butterfly  in  grey, 
And  thought  to  tame  it  to  my  way, 
Who  had  not  learned  to  dance  and  play, 
Toll  slowly! 

Nor  cared  for  any  vain  parade 

Of  fools  in  peacock  plumes  arrayed ; 

Or  any  mimic  art  displayed: 

She  loved  them  all. 

3  33 


I  read  the  longing  in  her  eyes, 
And  in  the  night  I  heard  her  sighs, 
And  vowed  to  give  her  that  she'd  prize, 
Whate'er  befall. 

I  rose  up  from  my  loved  one's  side 

Toll  slowly! 

One  midnight ;  e'er  the  cock  had  cried,  . 
I'd  spoiled  me  that  rich  countryside. 

That  day  I  gave  her  minted  gold ; 
And  jewels — all  her  hands  might  hold — 
And  gorgeous  stuffs,  and  laces  old, 
For  her  delight. 

She  asked  not  whence,  or  how  they  came ; 
She  but  consumed  them  as  a  flame, 
And  heaped  caresses,  till  the  shame 
Had  taken  flight. 

That  soul  remembering  too  well, 

Toll  slowly! 

The  sunward  height  from  whence  it  fell, 
Is  salted  with  all  fires  of  hell. 

They  took  me :  on  a  summer's  morn, 
They  took  me,  bound  me,  I  was  borne ; 
Chivied,  raged  at,  'whelmed  with  scorn, 
To  tribunal. 

34 


0  smug  judge,  voicing  your  regret, 

1  had  incurred  too  heavy  debt 
For  mercy ;  was  it  then  well  met 

With  seven  years  ? 

There  are  no  Daniels  left  to-day ; 

Toll  slowly! 

But  cold  machines,  who  spare  or  slay, 
According  as  the  statutes  say. 

CANTO    THE   EIGHTH 

They  might  have  conquered,  had  they  spared ; 

Toll  slowly! 

I  would  have  known  then  that  they  cared, 
And  all  my  soul  to  them  had  bared. 

Still  doth  the  ancient  law,  forsooth, 
Claim  eye  for  eye,  and  tooth  for  tooth ; 
They  took  full  measure  of  my  youth 
For  seven  years. 

They  came  and  told  me  I  was  free, 
To  go  the  where  it  pleased  me ; 
I  hasted  that  loved  face  to  see 
I  held  most  dear. 

One  met  me  bleak-eyed  at  the  door, 

Toll  slowly! 

And  in  three  words,  or  haply  four, 
Had  blasted  dreams  for  evermore. 
35 


I  sought  her  where  she  lay  asleep : 
Within  God's  acre  the  winds  keep 
Their  vigil,  and  the  dun  clouds  weep, 
As  though  they'd  blot 

Out  memory  of  that  hath  been 
For  one,  yet  keep  another's  green. 
God  grant  all  sleepers  do  not  dream 
Of  bygone  lot ! 

There  was  a  man — a  rich  man's  son — 

Toll  slowly! 

Had  coveted  that  I  had  won, 
And  for  her  feet  a  web  had  spun. 

I  faced  him  of  a  winter's  night, 
When  all  the  world  about  was  white, 
As  was  his  face  in  the  firelight, 
Looking  on  me. 

When  doom  comes  with  stern,  Minos  face, 
Some  rise  and  hail  it,  in  their  place, 
And  some — they  grovel  on  their  face ; 
And  thus  did  he. 

For  such  as  he  there  was  no  prayer; 

Toll  slowly! 

I  struck ;  and  when  I  left  him  there, 
His  blood  had  crimsoned  all  his  hair. 
36 


CANTO   THE  NINTH 

Here  in  this  cell  they  coffined  me ; 

Toll  slowly! 

Hence  dead  to  all  save  two  or  three, 
And  an  abiding  memory. 

I  knew — as  do  the  dead-alive — 
That  I  might  soul  from  body  rive, 
And  yet  would  memory  survive, 
To  plague  me  still. 

I  knew  that  I  no  more  would  see 
The  good  green  grass,  or  feel  the  free 
Sweet  winds  of  heaven  breathe  on  me 
A-top  a  hill. 

I  knew  sunshine  would  come  alway 

Toll  slowly! 

Through  tracery  of  bars,  and  stay 
For  so  few  minutes  of  the  day. 

I  knew  that  monthly  moonbeam  slants 
Across  the  pillow,  like  a  lance 
Of  glory  flung  by  some  mischance 
Within  the  wall. 

I  knew  no  starbeam  e'er  might  win 
Past  murk,  and  grime,  and  iron  gin, 
That's  hedged  about  to  keep  us  in, 
And  keep  out  all. 

87 


I  knew  the  jaunty  step  must  slow; 

Toll  slowly! 

The  blithesome  voice  must  silent  grow; 
That  laughter's  face  no  more  will  show. 

Fast  turns  the  raven  hair  to  white ; 
And  gay  eyes  soon  are  only  bright 
Of  tears  that  gather  till  the  night 
Shall  hide  their  fall. 

There's  paces  five  from  front  to  rear ; 
Count  paces  five  through  all  the  year ; 
And  paces  five  is  far  and  near 
Within  the  wall. 

Yet  paces  five  that  weave  no  spell; 

Toll  slowly! 

Nor  exorcise  one  imp  of  hell 
Of  all  that  myriad  we  tell. 

CANTO  THE  TENTH 

Slow  fades  the  day  into  the  night; 

Toll  slowly! 

And  slower  still  returns  the  light 
That  never  is  but  halfway  bright. 

For  us  no  dawn-bird  sounds  his  horn; 
Nor  matin-song  of  lark  upborne, 
Doth  tell  us  of  the  radiant  morn 
That's  born  anew. 

38 


There's  but  the  clang  of  iron  wards, 
That  pierce  the  heart  as  sharpened  swords, 
And  weave  their  harsh,  dissonant  chords, 
Our  dreaming  through. 

The  day  is  welcome,  though  it  bring 

Toll  slowly! 

Nor  good,  nor  ill,  nor  anything, 
Save  surcease  from  that  brood  that  cling 
Beneath  the  midnight's  sable  wing, 

And  sit  beside  our  heavy  bed, 
Until  the  morning  dawn  in  red, 
Recalling  that  was  done  and  said 
In  lawless  mood. 

For  always  when  God's  lamps  are  lit, 
What  sadness  doth  upon  us  sit, 
Who  watch  the  bird  of  darkness  flit 
Through  solitude. 

Knowing  that  never  home-lamps  burn 

Toll  slowly! 

For  us ;  nor  any  fond  hearts  yearn 
For  us,  who  do  no  more  return. 

O  bitter  'tis  to  lie  forgot 
Of  humankind,  and  friendly  thought, 
The  while  both  soul  and  body  rot 
A  wall  behind ! 

39 


A  grievous  thing  it  is  to  know 
That  only  Death  can  open  throw 
The  Gate — and  Death  so  oft  doth  show 
Himself  unkind. 

While  White  and  Red  Plague  take  their  toll, 
Leaving  the  body,  as  the  soul, 
Commingled  in  one  rotten  whole ; 
To  watch  the  tale  of  years  unroll ! 

CANTO    THE   ELEVENTH 

I  know  not  how  they  justify 

Toll  slowly! 

Their  work  who  make  a  man  to  die, 
And  yet  to  live,  and  see  no  sky. 

To  hear  each  hour  a  passing  bell, 
And  know  it  rings  a  funeral  knell, 
Is  heard  in  utmost  bounds  of  hell ; 
And  be  assured 

Such  does  not  spell  an  end  to  woe ; 
That  yet  another  hour  must  go, 
And  still  another,  even  so, 
Must  be  endured. 

I  sickened,  and  long  weeks  I  lay 

Toll  slowly! 

At  door  of  death,  and  oft  did  pray 
That  it  might  ope  for  me  straightway ; 
40 


Till  one  that  lay  in  cot  beside, 
At  dissolution's  moment  cried, 
"  'Tis  freedom !  "  and,  so  calling,  died, 
I  thought  to  trace 

Within  his  widely  opened  eyes, 
Some  inkling  of  the  glad  surprise 
With  which  he  looked  on  Paradise, 
And  old  loved  face. 

'Twas  then  I  knew  the  way  to  take ; 

Toll  slowly! 

'Twas  then  I  knew  that  I  would  break 
Life's  fetters  for  my  dear  one's  sake. 

I  knew  not  if  my  waking  eyes 
Would  look  on  hell  or  paradise ; 
I  knew  nor  hell  nor  death  denies 
That  right  of  love ; 

That  each  shall  win  unto  their  own, 
Despite  all  checks  about  them  thrown ; 
And  not  long  shall  they  walk  alone, 
Who  truly  love. 

Upon  a  black  midnight  I  died ; 

Toll  slowly! 

It  was  this  hand  of  mine  that  tied 
The  rope,  and  thrust  the  stool  aside." 
41 


CANTO  THE  TWELFTH 

I  woke — or  thought  to  wake — and  knew, 

Toll  slowly! 

The  Thing  was  gone.  The  dawn  stole  through, 
The  casement  I  wide  open  threw. 

I  heard  day's  noises  all  about ; 
The  senseless  laugh,  the  raucous  shout, 
Like  devils  crying  in  a  rout 
Walpurgis  night. 

And  one  doth  cry  a  ribald  curse; 
And  one  intones  a  sacred  verse, 
Yet  would  be  cut-throat  for  a  purse, 
However  light. 

Oh,  here's  hypocrisy,  indeed! 

Toll  slowly! 

One  picks  him  out  a  likely  creed 
And  dons  it,  thinking  to  be  freed. 

And  here  are  traitors  to  their  kind, 
Who  play  their  parts  of  rats  behind 
Th'  arras,  with  a  malice  blind, 
As  is  their  greed. 

For  preferment,  or  tit-bit  thrown, 
They  spy  and  prey  upon  their  own ; 
And  at  the  last  they  walk  alone ; 
They  have  their  meed. 
42 


One  makes  parade  of  penitence; 

Toll  slowly! 

And  one's  all  injured  innocence ; 
And  one's  a  very  saint  o'  Lents  ; 

And  one's  a  seeming  Stylites 
Upon  a  pillar,  crying  "  Please, 
To  note  I  am  not  like  to  these, 
The  common  herd." 

The  lion  roars  above  his  kill, 
And  it  is  echoed  from  the  hill ; 
But  men  do  stab  in  secret  still, 
With  knife  and  word. 

O  Christ,  who  died  two  thieves  between, 

Toll  slowly! 

And  pardoned  one ;  whose  wounds,  yet  green, 
Accuse ;  absolve  us  of  the  mean ! 

EPILOGUE 

The  Autumn  rains,  the  Winter  snows 

Unheeded  fall; 
But  when  the  South  Wind  wakes  the  Rose, 

What  voices  call ! 

There's  the  far  lands,  and  the  far  seas ; 
And  the  green  grass,  and  the  green  trees  ; 
And  rain,  and  sun,  and  cloud,  and  breeze ; 

And  God  o'er  all. 

43 


0  matins,  and  0  vesper  bells, 

Toll  slowly! 

A  city  of  a  thousand  cells — 
A  thousand  individual  hells, 
The  wherein  fear  and  rancor  dwells. 

And  here  are  grandsires,  stooped  and  old ; 
Yet  keeping  each  what  frantic  hold 
On  burned-out  life ;  for  long  since  sold 
Is  their  birthright. 

And  here  are  lads  of  whom  you'd  say 
That  these  were  breeched  but  yesterday, 
And  should  be  loosed  to  shout  and  play, 
With  ball  and  kite — 

Not  drinking  deep  of  that  vile  well 
Toll  slowly! 

Of  sewage  spewed  from  mouth  of  hell, 
More  foul  than  any  pen  may  tell. 

Give  callow  youth,  and  gallows-bird, 
And  of  the  twain  together  stirred 
Is  born  then  a  monstrous  third — 
As  Frankenstein. 

O  better  far  that  death  should  be 
Of  every  crime  the  penalty, 
Than  such  creation  should  go  free 
At  any  time. 

44 


Sly  devils  clothed  in  human  flesh ; 
Toll  slowly! 

Whose  revellings  in  midnight's  hush 
Might  make  Abaddon's  self  to  blush. 

Upon  a  wheel  of  solitude 
They  bind  them  of  defiant  mood, 
And  break  them ;  and  they  call  it  good, 
That  fear  doth  fall 

Upon  them ;  and  no  more  again, 
They  stand  among  their  fellow-men, 
Straight-kneed,  and  level-eyed,  as  when 
They  passed  the  wall. 

What  agency  of  theirs  can  make 
Toll  slowly! 

Anew  that  thing  they  idly  break 
Upon  a  wheel  for  order's  sake? 
May  God  forgive  them  the  mistake ! 

O  would  that  it  were  but  a  dream, 

Bred  of  the  night ! 
To  waken  in  the  morning  gleam, 

And  see  the  light 
On  faces  that  we  loved  and  knew ; 
To  hear  a  lark  sing  in  the  blue, 
Or  bustle  of  the  avenue — 

God,  and  we  might ! 

FINIS 


IN  HIS  NAME 

King's  Daughter," 
J.  H.  G. 

A  sorry  tale  it  is  I  tell, 

And  yet  methinks  that  it  ends  well. 

"  Youth  will  be  served."    O  golden  lad, 

So  very  short  Springtime  you  had ! 

Denied  a  mother's  love ;  denied 

A  father's  understanding  pride ; 

^And  none  to  cherish,  none  to  aid, 

What  wonder  that  your  footsteps  strayed 

A  little  from  the  beaten  path, 

Until  Fate  struck  in  careless  wrath. 

.Never  again  to  run  and  leap ; 
Only  to  lie  supine  and  keep 
A  ceaseless  memory  of  days 
Of  sunshine ;  wood  and  city  ways ; 
And  God's  free  winds  upon  that  brow, 
That's  chilled  of  walls  and  fetters  now ; 
And,  added  strength  to  steel  and  stone, 
Never  again  to  walk  alone ! 

And  who's  to  pity;  who's  to  care? 
No  one  of  all  he  loved  was  there. 

When  father,  mother,  sweetheart,  turns 
Away,  and  all  entreaty  spurns: 

46 


When  all  of  one's  own  blood  desert 
There  is  small  surcease  for  such  hurt. 

A  minstrel  sings  adown  the  years 

A  song,  commingled  with  all  tears, 

Of  prisoners  long  dead  and  gone : 

"  0  Richard!  0  mon  Roi!  Uunivers  t'abandonne!  " 

Millions  there  are  that  lie  them  down 
In  soft  white  beds  in  thorp  and  town, 
And  take  delight  of  peaceful  sleep ; 
But  what  and  they  were  doomed  to  keep 
That  couch ;  and  only  Death  might  free 
From  pain  and  dark  ignominy 
That  comrade  them?    With  strangers  all 
To  tend  them,  and  a  whitewashed  wall 
About  them,  tomblike.    Think  you  they 
Would  welcome  then  the  close  of  day  ? 

But  when  to  those  who  hardly  live, 
There  comes  the  friendly  hand  to  give 
The  cup  of  water  in  His  name ; 
Then  is  the  crowning  of  their  pain. 

Lady,  a  hopeless  task  is  mine ; 
To  sing  a  deed  so  near  divine ! 

Like  to  that  shining,  golden  beam, 

That,  breaking  through  the  dun  cloud's  screen, 

Paints  those  bright  arches  in  the  east, 

47 


That  tell  His  love  for  great  and  least, 
Into  that  darkened  life  you  brought 
The  peace  and  love  so  vainly  sought. 

You  deemed  it  a  small  thing  to  do, 
But  certes  Heaven's  trumpets  blew 
Resonant,  crying,  "  Come  and  see, 
Body  and  soul  of  him  set  free, 

Of  one  sweet  deed  of  charity !  " 

O  Daughter  of  the  Heavenly  King, 
Methinks  that  never  robe  nor  ring 
Of  earthly  monarch  might  adorn 
You  more  than  charity  so  worn ! 

'Tis  hard  to  die  with  loved  ones  near ; 
With  old-loved  voices  in  one's  ear ; 
But  who  can  vision  all  the  woe 
That's  their's,  who  must  all  lonely  go 
Into  the  dread,  unfriendly  dark, 
With  only  curious  eyes  to  mark 
Their  passing,  and  rude  hands  to  dress ; 
And  none  to  comfort,  none  to  bless. 

You  spared  him  this  last  woe  of  all ; 
And  kindly  hands  were  at  his  call ; 
And  no  bars  mocked  his  weakness  more  : 
Azrael's  wings,  that  hovered  o'er, 
Were  like  a  mother's  arms  that  fold 

48 


A  dear  one  close,  to  have  and  hold 
Safe  from  all  sorrow,  all  mischance. 
I  think  he  welcomed  Death's  advance ; 
Learning  at  last  the  mother-love 
That  would  be  his  in  courts  above. 

There  is  so  little  of  reward 

That  can  be  giv'n  for  love  outpoured, 

For  sacrifice  all  freely  made, 

For  loving  hands  so  quick  to  aid ; 

One  can  but  bow  the  head  and  say : 

"  God  bless  you,  ever  and  alway !  " 


FLAG  DAY— 1920 

The  Flag! 
And  the  glory  of  red  in  it! 

Red  of  hearths-blood  of  it's  hero-dead  in  it; 

Flame  of  all  patriot  souls  e'er  sped  in  it. 
They  died  on  sea  and  battle-plain, 
On  gallows-tree — as  Hale  and  Hayne; 
In  gaol  and  on  prison-ship ; 
At  Valley  Forge,  in  winter's  grip. 
It's  bright  folds  consecrate  the  slain 
Of  Lexington  and  Lundy's  Lane ; 
And  lie  in  benison  upon 
The  dead  of  Shiloh — and  Argonne. 
4  49 


The  Flag! 

And  the  splendor  of  white  in  it! 
White  rays  striking  through,  like  to  sunlight  in  it, 
White  stars  in  its  blue — symbols  of  might  in  it. 

That  freedom  be  our  heritage, 

Men  served  it,  having  scanty  wage ; 

And  on  its  bead-roll  read  to-day 

The  names  of  Franklin,  Webster,  Clay. 

The  proudest  banner  'neath  the  sun — 

'Twas  fathered  by  a  Washington ! 

And  by  a  Lincoln  kept  so  well 

That  not  one  star  from  out  it  fell. 

The  Flag! 

And  the  wonder  of  blue  in  it! 
All  banners  that  ever  April  flew  in  it; 
Sapphire  of  skies,  and  of  violets,  too,  in  it. 

Since  that  white  morning  of  its  birth, 

The  hope  of  the  oppressed  of  earth ; 

Pointing  to  freedom  like  that  Star 

The  Wise  Men  followed  from  afar. 

Whether  of  low  or  high  estate ; 

Whether  we  serve,  or  stand  and  wait ; 

'Tis  ours  to  keep  it  free  of  stain, 

That  these  served  not,  nor  died,  in  vain. 


50 


AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

MAY  THIRTIETH,  NINETEEN  NINETEEN 

Hail  and  farewell ! 

For  now  your  task  is  finished. 
Hail  and  farewell ! 

For  now  your  fight  is  won. 

The  ranks  go  by  diminished, 

By  you,  whose  race  is  run. 
Men  of  the  forges  and  the  mills, 
Men  of  the  wheatfields  and  the  hills, 
Iron  men,  with  iron  wills. 

Forged,  as  is  a  tempered  blade, 

For  the  world's  last  crusade ; 
And  to  whose  deed  the  proud  heart  thrills. 

Men  of  the  mountains — eagle  men — 

We  had  not  guessed  your  worth  before ; 
Men  of  the  cities — gentlemen — 

We  had  not  known  so  sound  of  core. 
Lads  who  dawdled  o'er  their  beer, 
Lads  who  measured  ribbons  here, 
Lads  whom  we  were  wont  to  jeer — 
Lifting  high  a  knightly  lance, 
Dying  to  stay  the  Hun's  advance ; 
Bayards,  without  reproach  or  fear. 

Though  other  hands  than  ours  shall  dress 

The  low  green  tents  that  shelter  you, 
And  alien  hearts  and  lips  shall  bless 
51 


The  high  souls  that  we  loved  and  knew, 
We  shall  remember ;  we  shall  keep 
Watch  and  ward  the  while  you  sleep — 
That  none  shall  hold  your  victory  cheap. 
For  the  high  libation  poured, 
We  have  freedom  from  the  sword ; 
The  peaceful  years  to  sow  and  reap. 

Hail  and  farewell ! 

For  you  there's  no  returning. 
Hail  and  farewell ! 

You  will  not  come  again ; 

For  all  our  endless  yearning ; 

For  all  our  tears  or  pain. 
Mother,  or  wife,  or  maid  may  weep, 
For  that  a  tryst  you  will  not  keep ; 
But  ye  have  honor,  and  ye  sleep. 

Guests  of  enduring  fame ; 

Your  sacrifice  not  vain, 
While  to  your  feet  the  poppies  creep. 


INDEPENDENCE  DAY,  1918 

Oh,  rouse  you  now  to  the  sound  of  drums, 
And  prove  you  true  when  your  hour  comes. 
Jn  your  country's  hour  of  utmost  need, 
Answering  not  to  the  call  of  greed ; 
Giving  ungrudgingly  all  you  should 

52 


Of  gold,  or  service,  or  own  heart's  blood. 

If  you  shall  do  this,  you  shall  do  well, 

And  your  children's  children  the  tale  shall  tell. 


An  olden  tale — they  tell  it  still — 

And  where's  the  heart  that  does  not  thrill 

To  Hale  beneath  the  gallows-tree, 
Deaf  to  the  fife's  insulting  play, 
And  crying,  "  I  regret  to-day 

I've  but  one  life  to  give  to  thee,  my  country!  "? 

If  you  shrink  from  the  cost,  however  great, 

You  are  not  worthy  your  high  estate. 

The  sword  you  have  drawn  shall  set  men  free ; 

And  how  well  you  have  chosen,  your  sons  shall  see. 

So  count  not  the  cost  till  the  task  be  done, 

And  look  not  back  till  the  fight  be  won, 

Lest  the  flame  on  your  altars  sink  and  die 

And  your  freedom  be  but  a  living  lie. 


There's  Lawrence  on  his  bloody  deck — 
His  good  ship  but  a  shattered  wreck, 

Fast  in  the  foeman's  grip — 
Wounded  and  dying — as  he  knew — 
Yet  still  to  duty,  staunch  and  true, 

His  last  word,  "  Don't  give  up  the  ship!  " 
53 


Will  you  give  less  than  your  fathers  gave? 
Will  you  do  less  than  your  storied  brave? 
Is  the  question  that  waits  your  answer,  now 
That  you've  put  your  hand  at  last  to  the  plow. 
Shall  Freedom  now  have  a  newer  birth, 
Or  perish  forever  from  off  the  earth? 
Would  you  be  a  freeman  still,  or  slave  ? 
O  answer  as  befits  the  brave ! 

In  your  hour  of  doubt — and  be  sure  'twill  come — 
When  you  say,  "  What  avails  it  all  that  we've 
done?  " 

Let  Paul  Jones  answer  you  aright. 
Scarce  could  he  strike  an  answering  blow; 
Yet,  called  to  surrender,  answers,  "  No! 

I  have  not  yet  begun  to  fight!  " 


MOTHER'S  DAY 

For  a  day,  or  for  an  hour, 

You  may  wear  a  snow-white  flower 

On  your  breast ; 
For  the  one  who,  all-forgiving, 
Whether  dead,  or  whether  living, 

Loves  you  best ; 

Who,  though  brand  of  Cain  were  burning 
On  your  brow,  and  all  else  spurning, 
Yet  would  welcome  your  returning 

To  home  nest. 

54 


Here's  a  debt  too  great  for  payment ; 
It  was  more  than  food  or  raiment, 

That  she  gave. 

Hers  the  pain,  the  burden-bearing ; 
Hers  the  never-ending  caring; 

Though  you'd  lave 
Worn  hands  with  tears  of  sorrow ; 
Heap  them  high  with  gold  to-morrow ; 
All  the  wealth  you'd  earn,  or  borrow, 

She'd  not  have. 

She  would  have  you  but  remember ; 
Blow  to  flame  Love's  dying  ember ; 

Come  back  home. 
That  her  vigil  be  not  bootless ; 
All  her  heart's  petition  fruitless 

For  her  own. 
Go  as  Lazarus,  or  Dives  ; 
Go  in  state,  or  go  in  gyves  ; 
Still  her  love  is  like  to  ivies, 

Round  us  thrown. 


55 


ORA  PRO  NOBIS 

DEDICATE 

TO 
THE  LIFE   PRISONER 

Pray  ye  for  us,  who  are  the  living  dead ; 
Who  have  no  part,  nor  any  lot  in  life ; 
Who  may  not  e'er  be  victors  in  high  strife ; 
Or  ever  know  the  laurel-crowned  head : 
Must  ever  leave  the  loving  word  unsaid, 
And  live  unblessed  of  love  of  child,  or  wife, 
In  a  grey  world  with  fell  suspicion  rife, 
Till  even  Life's  handmaiden,  Hope,  be  fled. 

Pray  ye  for  us,  that  early  we  may  be 

Cleansed  of  our  stain  by  Christ,  His  own  dear 

grace ; 

Freed  of  this  life,  and  of  our  prison  free, 
To  dwell  with  our  dear  saints  in  a  green  place 
Of  Paradise,  and  see  His  host  of  stars 
Sweep  ever  past,  unchecked  of  bounds  or  bars. 


RHEIMS:1914 

From  out  the  western  panes  the  glory  fades, 
And  shadows  people  now  each  fretted  stall, 
And  gather  thickly  by  the  painted  wall. 
Shades  of  old  warrior  priests  and  sainted  maids; 
And  those  who  died  for  Christ  in  Viking  raids ; 

56 


Their  faces  stern,  they  wait,  expectant  all, 
Of  God's  dire  vengeance  on  the  Hun  let  fall ; 
Most  meet  for  those  who  His  own  house  invades. 

When — is  it  vision,  or  a  waking  dream? 
That  altar  is  a  hilltop,  gaunt  and  bare, 
Yet  consecrate ;  for  still  a  Cross  is  there, 
Lifting  its  burden  to  the  star's  faint  gleam ; 
While  all  the  aisles  a  Voice  is  crying  through : 
"  Father,  forgive ;  they  know  not  what  they  do ! 


MORNING  AT  CAPE  ANN 

Yon  headland  looms  upon  the  horizon, 
Forbidding,  black,  as  'twere  a  huge  Afrite 
New-risen  from  the  wave,  and  gath'ring  might, 
Ere  stalking  landward  through  a  tragic  dawn. 
The  curtains  of  the  mist  are  closely  drawn, 
Lest  mortal  eye  be  blinded  of  the  sight ; 
For  now  Aurora  leaves  the  couch  of  Night, 
To  walk  in  beauty  on  the  hills  beyond. 

A  vagrant  wind  comes  stealing  from  the  sea 
To  ruffle  all  the  drooping  leaves,  and  wake 
The  lark  yet  sleeping  in  the  meadow-brake, 
And  send  the  hawk  full-circling  o'er  the  lea. 
The  misty  curtain  thins,  is  rent  away, 
Revealing  all  the  splendor  of  the  Day. 
57 


IN  THE  WILDERNESS 

It  was  a  lonely  and  a  silent  land 

That  lay  about  me,  watching  from  the  hill 

In  the  November  twilight's  gathering  chill. 

No  hint  of  human  presence  marred  the  strand 

Where  forest  marched  with  river,  hand  in  hand, 

Undreaming  of  man's  coming,  and  his  skill 

In  making  over  Nature  to  his  will. 

Perchance  some  day  a  roaring  town  shall  stand 

Where  now  the  deer  come  trooping  down  to  drink ; 

The  pleasant  murmur  of  the  waterfall 

Be  lost  in  clamor  of  the  market-place. 

So  be  it !    Man  must  lengthen,  link  by  link, 

The  chain  wherewith  he  holds  the  earth  in  thrall, 

Or  vanish  as  a  mist  from  off  its  face. 


PITTSBURGH 

I  saw  it  from  a  hilltop  one  midnight— 
A  wizard's  cauldron,  wherein  men  transmute 
Base  metals  into  gold,  man  into  brute. 
The  rose  of  fire  that  blossomed  in  my  sight 
Is  but  a  furnace  baring  heart  of  white, 
Ere  yielding  to  its  masters  what  tribute! 
A  thousand  hasting  engines  wail  and  hoot 
Challenge  and  greeting  to  the  tortured  night. 
58 


The  human  tides  that  ceaseless  rise  and  fall, 
Responsive  to  the  changing  pulse  of  steel ; 
The  kindly  darkness  hid  them  from  my  gaze. 
Saxon,  and  Slav,  and  Latin,  Afric — all 
Fast  bounden  as  of  old  to  labor's  wheel, 
The  while  their  masters  walk  in  primrose  ways. 


TO  THE  CHOIR  OF  ST.  LAURENTIUS'  R.  C. 
CHURCH 

"  I  was  in  prison,  and  ye  came  unto  me," 
And  bearing  with  you  such  rich  gift  of  song, 
As  thrilled  me  like  to  bugles  that  cry  long, 
And  urge  me  to  a  fight  I  fain  would  flee. 
The  trumpet  voices  sound.    Thy  knight  I'd  be, 
O  Lady  Mary,  clean  and  brave  and  strong, 
To  meet  in  Ephesus  the  wild  beast  throng, 
And  keep  full  faith  with  thy  dear  Son  and  thee. 

As  may  God's  angels  flying  over  Hell, 
And  singing  as  they  go  about  His  work, 
Let  fall  a  splendid  strophe  through  the  murk ; 
That,  like  to  Jesus  at  Samarian  well, 
Forever  quenches  one  soul's  burning  thirst, 
So  make  you,  O  sweet  singers,  best  of  worst. 


59 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  MISS 

Dear  little  lady,  had  I  tongue  to  flatter, 

A  rosy  future  I  would  paint  for  you ; 
With  lovers  mad  for  you  as  any  hatter, 

Or  as  March  hare,  too. 
Sighing  all  the  night  long  'neath  your  windows ; 

Singing  of  your  beauty  to  the  stars ; 
I  will  only  say,  I've  seen  your  likeness, 

And — I  curse  the  bars. 

I  would  be  some  score  of  years  the  younger ; 

Stroll  with  you  adown  an  April  lane ; 
Though  as  courtier  I  was  ever  bungler, 

I  would  try  again. 
Haply  when  the  firefly  lamps  were  litten, 

And  the  dew  lay  heavy  on  the  grass ; 
You  might  watch  with  me  the  gold  stars  mirrored 

In  the  water's  glass. 

I  would  speak  no  word  of  love  or  longing ; 

I,  who  scarce  would  dare  to  take  your  hand ; 
Stainless  as  the  lilies  that  are  thronging 

All  the  river's  strand. 
I  would  play  the  pale,  despairing  lover, 

Worshiping,  yet  knowing  it  but  vain ; 
As  the  moths  around  the  night-lamps  hover, 

Careless  of  the  flame. 

60 


So  I'd  hang  upon  your  lightest  saying ; 

Dance  and  grimace,  but  to  see  you  smile ; 
Glad  to  be  the  comrade  of  your  playing 

For  a  little  while. 
Little  lady,  'tis  but  idle  dreaming, 

I  shall  ne'er  see  but  your  pictured  face ; 
Yet  to  me  that  one  brief  moment's  seeming 

Gives  new  heart  of  grace. 


TO  EAMONN  DE  VALERA 

PRESIDENT  OF  THE  IRISH  REPUBLIC 

And  whom  came  you  forth  to  see? 

A  conqueror  silken  clad, 
Riding  slow  through  the  city, 

With  only  the  mothers  sad? 
Clangor  of  trumpets  before  him, 

Shouting  that  swells  like  a  storm : 
Riding  slow  through  the  city, 

As  one  to  the  purple  born. 

Nay,  not  so  will  you  see  him — 

A  simple  gentleman,  he. 
Only  the  children  of  Erin 

Can  vision  the  majesty 
That  goes  before  him,  about  him ; 

For  there  in  their  youth  and  their  pride 
Go  the  patriot  dead  of  all  Erin, 

Soul  to  his  soul  allied. 
61 


Wolfe  Tone  and  O'Connell 

And  Patrick  Sarsfield  are  there ; 
And  the  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald 

And  Emmett  (O  trumpets,  blare!). 
And  there  with  the  elder  heroes, 

Gallant  and  brave  as  they, 
Walk  Phadraic  Pearse  and  Connolly, 

The  dead  of  the  newer  day. 

Dark  was  the  night  of  Erin — 

So  very  dark  and  so  long, 
That  scarce  can  we  be  persuaded 

Of  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 
That  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  shall  triumph, 

That  the  fields  of  their  sowing  we  reap, 
And  the  epitaph  of  young  Emmett, 

May  early  be  graven  deep. 

O  wake  from  your  sleep,  ye  slain, 

That  people  Drogheda's  graves  ; 
And  speak  to  the  hearts  of  your  children, 

That  they  no  longer  be  slaves ! 
And  all  tall  chieftains  of  Tara, 

Brian  and  Cairbre  and  Conn, 
Rouse  ye,  and  bring  to  the  battle, 

The  soul  of  a  day  that  is  gone. 

That  the  chieftains  may  sit  in  Tara, 

And  make  such  laws  as  are  right ; 
That  the  minstrels  may  strike  in  gladness 


Their  harps  that  were  dumb  for  the  night ; 
That  the  blood  of  our  best  and  our  bravest, 

Water  no  foreign  lands. 
O  Eamonn  de  Valera, 

Is  not  this  the  task  to  your  hands? 


TO  THE  SOCIETY  OF  JESUS 

When  the  harvesting  is  ended,  and  earth's  tale  of 

days  is  done, 
And  the  lightnings  and  the  thunders  tell  the  Great 

Assize  is  come ; 
In  that  hour  of  splendid  triumph,  when  the  earth 

and  heavens  meet, 
Will  Thy  warriors,  O  Jesus,  lay  their  trophies  at 

Thy  feet? 

Mitred  abbot,  mighty  prelate,  all  the  saints  of 

Mother  Church, 
They  shall  bring  rich  gifts  unto  Thee,  but  Thy 

kindling  eye  shall  search 
All  the  throng  for  Thine  own  soldiers  who  have 

counted  all  else  dross, 
But  the  teaching  of  the  nations,  and  the  bearing 

of  Thy  cross. 

There's  Thy  generals :  Ignatius,  Aquaviva,  all  the 
rest, 


Who  have  led  Thy  van  of  battle  with  Thy  cross 
upon  their  breast. 

There's  the  treasure  of  their  gaining,  all  the  finest 
of  the  wheat — 

Countless  souls  of  their  far  gleaning,  of  Thy  free 
dom  made  complete. 

These  have  given  joy  for  mourning;  these  have 

given  peace  for  strife ; 
These  have  poured  Thine  oil  of  gladness  into  many 

a  bruised  life. 
To  the  broken  and  the  weary,  who  have  fainted  by 

the  way, 
These  have  stretched  out  hands  of  helping,  that 

they  live  for  Thee  to-day. 

To  the  monarch  in  his  palace,  to  the  captive  in 

his  cell, 
These  have  thundered  forth  Thy  message,  "  Choose 

ye  now  'twixt  Heaven  and  Hell." 
All  the  Seven  Seas  have  known  them,  and  earth's 

uttermost  frontier; 
To  the  farthest  jungle-dweller  did  Thy  warriors 

appear. 

And  no  might  of  men  could  stay  them,  nor  defeat 

the  end  they  sought ; 
That  unto  all  men  and  nations,  should  Thy  Gospel, 

Lord,  be  taught. 

64 


And  upon  that  day  of  triumph,  when  Thy  waking 

trumpets  sound, 
In  the  black  gown  of  the  Jesuit,  are  Thy  proudest 

warriors  found. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A.  M.  C.  D. 

Yours,  O  sweetly  singing  soul  that's  crowned  now 

with  stars ; 
Yours  is  a  golden  memory  nor  time  nor  usage 

mars. 
Sweet-scented  is  your  memory  as  ever  myrrh  or 

musk; 
Sweet  as  breath  of  isle  of  spice  that's  seaward 

blown  at  dusk. 

O  sweet  to  us  your  memory  as  any  that  we  keep — 
Memory  of  home,  or  friends,  or  mother  that  we 

weep. 

All  the  broken  hearts  you  healed  are  singing  now 

ybur  praise, 
And  all  the  broken  men  you  helped  to  better  things 

and  days, 
Are  mourning  now  your  passing,  and  they  will  not 

be  consoled ; 
Are  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd,  careless  of  the 

rain  and  cold ; 
5  65 


And  wistful  for  your  singing  voice  to  lead  them 

once  again, 
As  in  other  days  it  led  them  when  they  were  but 

broken  men. 

O  hard  and  bitter  was  our  lot  when  first  to  us  you 

came; 
The  darkness  and  the  lonely  cell  and  the  abiding 

shame. 
You  trod  a  straightened  path  with  us  for  many 

weary  years: 
In  His  Name  you  counselled  "  Courage !  "  In  His 

Name  you  banished  fears ; 
And  the  still,  small  voice  conquered — terror  shall 

not  come  again — 
And   they   hearkened   to    your   counsel,   and   are 

making  of  us — men ! 

TO  J.  J.  M. 

JANUARY    1,    1920 

If  the  New  Year  bring  you  gladness, 

Meet  it  with  unchanging  face ; 
And  the  world  will  grant  you  wisdom — 

Set  you  in  still  higher  place. 

And  the  New  Year  bring  you  sadness, 

Smile  above  the  aching  heart ; 
And  the  world  will  know  and  cheer  you 

Till  the  wound  shall  ease  its  smart. 
66 


And  it  bring  you  disappointment, 
Never  weep  nor  veil  your  face ; 

And  you'll  find  that  though  you've  fallen. 
You  will  still  have  won  a  race. 

May  the  New  Year  bring  you  wisdom ; 

May  you  never  know  content 
With  the  goal  you've  reached,  but  ever 

See  ahead  the  goal  you  meant. 

For  all  things  are  had  of  striving, 

And  all  happiness  is  there ; 
They  alone  have  joy  of  living, 

Who  a  forward  banner  bear. 

There  is  never  foe  can  stay  you, 
And  your  sword,  and  will,  be  keen ; 

But  the  battle's  lost  forever, 

And  you  rest  beside  life's  stream. 

It  is  yours  to  bravely  stem  it ; 

With  a  high  resolve  each  day, 
That  the  night-time  on  its  coming 

Finds  you  well  upon  your  way. 

To  a  goal  that  flies  before  you, 

To  a  fortune  that  retreats, 
To  the  sunset's  supreme  glory, 

Gained  of  morn's  and  noon's  defeats. 
67 


All  the  world  for  a  Valhalla, 
And  a  fight  that's  never  won ; 

Never  lost ;  and  never  slackens, 
Till  the  fighting  day  be  done. 

Standing  then  all  bruised  and  battered, 

In  the  evening's  interlude ; 
Viewing  all  the  field  behind  you, 

May  you  know  your  fight  was  good. 

That  although  your  sword  be  broken, 
That  although  the  crown  be  lost, 

You  may  count  the  scars  of  battle 
Not  unworthy  of  the  cost. 

This  my  wish  for  you  this  New  Year  : 

Never  arbor  of  delight ; 
But  a  field  of  splendid  battle, 

And  a  stout  heart  for  the  fight. 


THE  WHISTLIN'  COLLEEN 

TO  L.  C.  M. 

There's  gold  here  and  rich  gear  and  lasses  fine  an' 


But  the  green  hills  of  Ireland  are  far,  far  away, 
And  Kathleen,  macushla,  oh,  where  are  you  th' 
day? 

68 


My  Kathleen  Mavourneen, 

With  your  eyes  of  Irish  grey ; 
It's  many  the  "  Stack  o'  Barley," 

I  danced  with  you  away ! 
It's  many  an  hour  we  wandered 

By  Bendemeer's  stream ; 
Such  the  dreams  you  bring  to  me, 

O  whistlin'  colleen ! 

There's  broad  streets  an'  beautiful,  an'  buildin's 

fine  an'  tall, 
But  there's  no  dusty,  crooked  street  like  that  o' 

Ballingall ; 
And  th'  peat-smoke,  th'  sweet  smoke,  I'll  smell  no 

more  at  all. 

It's  Nancy  Hynes  !    Nancy  Hynes  ! 

O  come  and  walk  with  me ; 
I'm  off  to  Philadelphia, 

So  far  beyant  the  sea. 
I'll  pluck  no  more  the  shamrock, 

Where  Shannon's  waters  gleam ; 
But  you  bring  old  Ireland  o'er  to  me, 
O  whistlin'  colleen ! 


TO  THE  LADIES  OF  SAN  DOMINGO 

CHORAL  CLUB 

CHORAL 

The  Glory  of  Life  is  Music ; 

Rhythms  that  beat  and  swell, 
As  waves  of  the  broad  Atlantic 

Beat  out  a  doomed  ship's  knell ; 
The  little  semiquavers 

That  ripple  and  glide  and  run, 
Like  whispering  leaves  of  the  forest ; 

Or  waves  that  dance  in  the  sun. 

These  walls  were  made  for  sighing — 

So  bleak,  so  cold,  so  bare ; 
For  a  high,  wild  voice  crying 

Upon  the  midnight  air ; 
Yet  one  sweet  note,  in  dying, 

Can  make  them  passing  fair 
As  any  high-walled  garden, 

With  roses  blooming  there. 


IMITATIONS  DE  CHRISTI 

TO  D.  J.  C. 

Who  sit  in  the  seats  of  the  mighty,  vested  in  purple, 

apart, 
Are  never  so  near  to  the  Master  as  they  who  toil 

in  the  mart ; 

70 


Who  bear  the  heat  and  the  burthen  of  a  never- 

ending  day, 
Giving  the  sum  of  service,  and  never  a  thought  to 


Leaving  the  law  of  tooth  and  claw,  to  walk  in  the 
Master's  way. 

For  His  hands  —  ere  the  nails  had  pierced  them  — 

He  had  not  feared  to  soil  ; 
His     brow  —  ere     the     thorns     ensanguined  —  had 

known  the  sweat  of  toil. 
He  is  brother  to  those  who  labor,  toiling  with 

faithful  hands, 
That  the  myriad  mouths  of  the  world  be  fed,  even 

as  He  commands  ; 
And  the  gospel  of  labor  and  love  of  your  neighbor 

be  law  in  the  uttermost  lands. 

To  voice  no  scorn  of  the  weakling,  the  proven 

drone,  or  the  fool; 
With   never   self-praise   of   one's    skill,   or    one's 

strength,  or  one's  sharper  tool. 
To  turn  not  aside  from  the  stranger  needing  a 

hand  to  aid  ; 
To  give  to  a  friend  unstinting,  and  fear  not  to  go 

unpaid  ; 
For  the  talent  lost  then  shall  become  as  ten  when 

the  great  Accounting's  made. 
71 


Giving  no  thought  to  the  morrow,  leaving  it  all  to 

Him; 
But  living  the  day   as   He'd  live  it,  lifting  the 

evening  hymn 
With  soul  unscathed  of  the  tempter,  touching  His 

garment's  hem, 
To  be  healed  of  the  day's  dark  issues,  glad  of  your 

knowing  then, 
That  you  lived  a  day  in  the  Master's  way  for  the 

weal  of  your  fellow-men. 


TO  THE  CHOIR  OF  ST.  STEPHEN'S  R.  C. 
CHURCH 

St.  Stephen's  was  a  vision  of  the  heavens  opened 

wide, 
The  shining  courts,  and  Throne  thereof,  and  One 

who  sat  beside, 
And  sweetly  smiled  upon  him,  as  beneath  the  stones 

he  died. 

So  vision  came  to  each  of  us  who  listened  to  your 

song — 
A  vision  of  us  standing  'neath  God's  heaven,  tall 

and  strong, 
Free  as  His  air  and  sunshine,  and  unscathed  of  any 

wrong. 

72 


A  vision  of  the  Might-Have-Been,  the  Dream  left 

unfulfilled ; 
The  splendid  dreaming  of  our  youth,  to  which  our 

boy's  heart  thrilled, 
And  which  the  weeds   of  after  years   so  quickly 

choked  and  killed. 

i 
To  some  rich  joy  of  service,  and  to  some  full  store 

of  gold ; 
To  some  a  death  right  glorious,  where  drums  like 

thunder  rolled; 
To  some  a  humble  fireside,  with  but  love  to  have 

and  hold. 

For  that  your  song  hath  brought  to  us  the  Vision 

long  denied ; 
Gave  to  us  for  an  Hour  of  Gold  all  things  for  which 

we  sighed ; 
You  have  full  meed  of  gratitude  from  all  who  here 

abide. 


TO    THE    SODALITY    OF    THE    BLESSED 
VIRGIN  MARY  OF  ST.  STEPHEN'S  R.  C. 
CHURCH 

The  wild  heart,  the  child  heart, 

The  heart  of  wife,  or  maid, 
May  lean  on  heart  of  Mary, 
73 


And  rest  all  undismayed 
Of  earthly  ills,  or  earthly  cares ; 
Secure  of  strength  whatever  fares, 

And  of  all  pain  allayed. 

The  little  things,  like  nettle  stings, 

That  vex  us  most  of  all ; 
A  loved  one  takes  a  step  aside ; 

A  friend  hears  not  our  call ; 
The  little  pin-pricks  that  distress, 
All  vanish  into  nothingness, 

At  Mary's  feet  let  fall. 

The  bitter  cup,  the  darkling  cup, 

That  all  of  us  must  drink, 
When  Sorrow  nests  within  the  heart, 

And  Hope  fails  link  by  link. 
Then  .Mary  stoops  from  her  white  throne, 
Remembering  anguish  of  her  own, 

And  lifts  us  from  the  brink. 


TO  THE  ORPHEUS  CLUB  OF 
PHILADELPHIA 

"  Music  hath  charms,"  the  poet  wrote, 
And  phrased  it  excellently  well ; 

Ulysses  feared  the  Siren's  note, 

And  by  it  Orpheus  conquered  Hell ; 

74 


Yet  left  Eurydice  behind, 

As  you  leave  us ;  but  never  mind, 

You  sang,  and  we're  the  more  resigned. 

"  MANDALAY  " 

You  who  followed  the  world  around, 

What  were  you  thinking  then  ? 
Did  you  hear  the  drums  of  the  desert  sound, 

Calling  you  back  again 
To  the  blazing  reach  of  a  tropic  beach, 

Or  the  gloom  of  a  jungle  way? 
Did  the  old  love  wake,  and  you  long  to  take 

"  The  road  to  Mandalay  "? 

"  ROLLING  DOWN  TO  RIO  " 

You  who  followed  the  sea  in  ships, 

What  did  it  say  to  you? 
Did  you  taste  the  salt  sea-spray  on  your  lips, 

As  you  followed  the  chanty  through? 
You  that  have  seen  the  long  seas  lift — 

One  of  a  roaring  crew — 

When  the  pale  stars  peer  through  the  scudding 
drift, 

What  dreams  did  it  bring  to  you? 


For  you  it  bloomed  in  a  country  lane, 

For  you  in  a  city  street ; 
The  one  Rose,  the  White  Rose, 

You  trod  beneath  your  feet. 
76 


The  Wild  Rose,  the  child  Rose, 
That  ne'er  will  bloom  again; 

O  you  who  plucked  it  carelessly, 
What  were  you  thinking  then? 


TO  THE  CATHOLIC  CHORAL  CLUB  OF 
PHILADELPHIA 

O  choric  song  that  leaps  like  flame, 
Then  sinks,  diminuendo  strain, 

Like  far-heard  voices  of  the  night ; 
To  rise,  to  swiftly  rise  again, 
As  eagle  newly  freed  of  chain, 

And  questing  for  his  eyried  height. 

We  hear  the  beat  of  "  Fairy  Shoon," 
Dancing  'neath  Midsummer  moon, 
To  a  faint-heard,  haunting  tune, 
Such  as  mothers  softly  croon 

In  the  bedtime  hour. 
Golden  lads  at  mother's  knee — 
Promise  of  the  man-to-be — 
Once  we  could  the  fairies  see ; 
Never  more,  alas,  shall  we 

Own  that  childish  dower. 
76 


Each  one  has  his  own  "  Musette," 
Loved,  or  lost,  or  hoped  for  yet ; 
Eyes  of  blue,  or  eyes  of  jet, 
Shine  like  stars  in  Heaven  set, 

To  guide  the  wayward  feet. 
O  holy  Mary,  Mother,  Maid, 
Grant  to  us,  who  ask  thine  aid, 
That  each  shall  have  his  little  maid, 
When  the  dreadful  debt  is  paid, 

Heart  to  heart  may  meet. 


"  THE  AMERICANS  COME !  " 

"  The  Americans  come,"  and  the  Avenue 

Is  gay  with  the  old  Red,  White  and  Blue ; 

And  there's  tears  and  smiles,  for  they  all  of  them 

knew 
That  Victory  marched  beside  them,  too ; 

And  the  fight  was  won. 
Oh,  would  that  we  in  a  far-off  day 
Might  fight,  and  triumph,  and  march  as  they ; 
Be  foremost  of  all  in  a  splendid  fray, 
In  a  hopeless  hour,  that  men  might  say, 

"  The  Americans  come !  " 


77 


TO  LITTLE  MISS  M- 


O  Littlest  Lady,  why  the  pout? 

Who  hath  offended  thee? 
Hath  some  rash  mortal  dared  to  flout 

Thy  childish  majesty? 
Then  he  were  but  a  traitor  knight, 
And  should  be  banished  from  thy  sight. 

Thy  kingdom's  of  the  heart  alone, 

And  veriest  tyranny ; 
And  yet  thy  subjects  make  no  moan, 

Are  well  content  to  see 
The  scepter  in  thy  rose-leaf  hand, 
And  hearken  to  thy  least  command. 

To  be  thy  loyal  knight  and  true — 
What  better  thing  than  this? 

Who'd  blench  from  deed  of  derring-do, 
Rewarded  by  thy  kiss? 

I'd  rise  up  from  such  accolade, 

A  Galahad,  O  sweetest  maid ! 

When  then  the  fairy-prince  shall  come, 
Responsive  to  th'  unuttered  call; 

May  thy  last  kingdom  to  be  won 
Be  then  the  goodliest  of  all ; 

And  thou,  as  in  the  fairy  lore, 

Live  happily  for  evermore. 
78 


TO  CAPTAIN  DAVID  FALLON,  M.  C, 

ANZAC,    MARCH    10,    1918 

Captain,  the  thudding  guns  we  hear 
Calling  through  the  day  and  year, 

Muttering  persistently. 
Calling  in  the  morning's  gray ; 
Calling  at  the  close  of  day ; 

Uttering  insistently 
A  call  to  us,  who  have  no  name, 
To  reeling  deck,  or  battle-plain, 
To  expiate  a  life  of  shame. 

Captain,  the  fields  of  France  are  red 
With  blood  of  best  that  Britain  bred ; 

And  mingled  in  that  ruddy  tide 
Is  blood  of  men  alike  to  us, 
Who  lifted  blind  eyes  from  the  dust 

And  sensed  the  Glory,  ere  they  died. 
Felon  is  there,  and  parasite, 
That  wrongly  lived,  yet  died  a-right, 
The  while  the  Grail  flamed  on  their  sight. 

Captain,  our  souls  are  dark  with  sin, 
And  oft  a  devil  dwells  therein ; 

And  yet  one  spark  of  living  fire 
Dwells  in  the  breast  of  everyone, 
And  at  the  throbbing  of  the  drum 

Leaps  to  the  urge  of  our  desire 
79 


That  we  should  stand  in  Flanders'  mud 
And  dare  to  stay  the  German  flood 
With  barrier  of  our  heart's  blood. 

Captain,  the  guns  are  never  still, 
Calling  all  peoples  to  the  kill; 

Yet  do  we  linger  here, 
Eating  anxious  hearts  away 
With  longing  for  that  splendid  fray. 

It  is  not  death  we  fear ; 
Rather  we  fear,  in  days  to  come, 
To  hear  men  say — their  task  well  done — 
"  What  did  you  when  we  fought  the  Hun  ?  " 


TO  W.  R.  M. 

I  kept  the  faith,  but  you,  but  you, 

You  failed  me  in  my  need ; 
I  never  deemed  you  aught  but  true, 

Faithful  in  thought  and  deed. 
That  you  should  play  the  coward's  part 
Was  as  a  dagger  in  my  heart. 

I  died  a  thousand  deaths  that  day- 
Anger,  and  grief,  and  shame — 

To  know  you  were  but  common  clay, 
That  I  had  loved  in  vain ; 

Hell  hath  no  punishment  like  this, 

To  know  too  late  the  Judas  kiss. 
80     • 


The  cup  of  trembling  I  must  drink — 

You  filled  it  to  the  brim ; 
The  chain  that  binds  me,  link  on  link, 

You  forged  in  some  mad  whim. 
You  tombed  me  with  the  living  dead, 
And  no  one  word  of  pity  said. 


IN  MEMORIAM 

MRS.   E.   R.,  AET.   93 

Those  hands  that  never  quite  knew  rest, 
Lie  now  so  quiet  on  that  breast ; 
Hands  that  were  worn  of  toiling, 
Yet  are  far  too  lovely  to  forget. 

Those  lips  that  spoke  so  loving  word, 
Will  nevermore  by  speech  be  stirred. 
The  tireless  feet  that  served  our  will, 
Know  peace  at  last,  and  are  most  still. 

The  ears  that  never  failed  to  hear, 
Our  faintest  note  of  pain  or  fear, 
Are  sealed  forever  to  our  woes ; 
And  yet,  methinks,  she  hears  and  knows. 


81 


TO  THE  H.  F.  C. 

Hope,  that  the  best  of  your  life's  yet  before  you ; 
Faith,  that  the  world's  not  against  you,  but  for 

you; 
Charity  for  all,  though  doubly  they  bore  you. 

Honor,  and  what  does  it  mean  to  you? 
A  Watchword,  a  Star,  a  Flame  that  burns  steadily, 
Or  a  rope  made  of  straw  that  is  broken  too  readily? 
A  Tower  and  a  Sword  in  the  hour  of  disaster, 
Or  a  Voice  in  your  ear  that  but  makes  you  run 
faster? 

A  breath,  and  a  bubble, 

That  only  fools  cherish; 

Or  a  treasure  worth  double 

The  gold  that  will  perish? 

A  Grail,  hidden  deep  in  the  heart  of  each  one  of  us, 
To  be  guarded  and  kept  and  passed  on  to  the  son 

of  us; 

Or  a  Something  that  doesn't  appeal  to  the  run 
of  us? 

Honor,  and  what  has  it  been  to  you? 

Friendship,  and  what  have  you  done  with  it? 
A  growl,  and  a  scowl  for  the  friend  that  you're 

meeting, 

Or  a  gay,  cheerful  word,  and  a  smile  for  a  greeting? 
And  when  he's  gone  by,  is  he  still  a  "  good  fellow," 

82 


Or  is  it  like  this,  "  Sure,  I  know  that  he's  yellow." 

When  he's  on  the  down  grade, 

Do  you  stand  by  unheeding, 

Or  give  to  him  the  aid 

He's  expecting  and  needing? 
Should  his  burden  be  great,  are  you  trying  to 

lighten  it? 

If  his  future  be  dark,  are  you  trying  to  brighten  it? 
Or  did  you  forge  his  chain,  and  are  wishful  to 
tighten  it? 

Friendship,  and  whom  have  you  won  with  it? 

Honor,  the  Glory  of  life,  and  the  Soul  of  it ; 
Friendship,  the  Story  of  life,  and  the  Goal  of  it ; 
Honor  and  Friendship,  and  there  you've  the  whole 
of  it. 


TO  THE  CHOIR  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  ASYLUM 

A  child  note,  like  lark  note, 

Is  ringing  in  my  ears, 
And  like  a  Magic  Carpet  bears 

Me  back  adown  the  years. 
And  lo !  I  am  a  boy  again, 
With  face  uplifted  to  the  rain, 
And  knowing  naught  of  sin,  or  shame, 

Nor  aught  of  earthly  cares. 


0  flute  note !    O  lute  note ! 
That  stirs  the  blood  like  wine, 

Recalling  all  the  j  oy  I  had 
Of  vanished  summertime. 

1  see  the  sun's  gold  on  the  wheat ; 
I  hear  the  organ  down  the  street ; 
I  feel  the  cool  wave  lap  my  feet ; 

O  careless,  happy  lad ! 

O  sad  note !    O  sweet  note ! 

That  wrings  the  heart  of  me, 
Rememb'ring  all  I  might  have  been — 

Can  never  hope  to  be. 
Better  than  gold  and  richest  gear; 
Better  than  most  the  world  holds  dear — 
Place  or  fame — is  a  conscience  clear 

Of  all  offense  to  men. 

O  gay  note !    O  glad  note ! 

We  smile  behind  our  tears. 
The  boy's  heart's  still  in  the  most  of  us, 

Persisting  through  the  years. 
Old  dreams  of  our  youth  are  ours  still ; 
The  goal  we  sought  is  over  the  hill, 
To  be  reached  to-morrow,  if  God  will, 

And  we  but  strive,  and  trust. 


84 


AD  MEMORIAM 

THE  REVEREND  FATHER  o'KANE 

Fifty  years  of  service  in  the  vineyards  of  the  Lord ; 

Fifty  years  of  garnering,  of  love  and  strength 
outpoured ; 

Only  Christ,  and  Mary,  Mother,  know  what  har 
vest  stored. 

And  what  can  we  give  for  that  you've  given ; 
For  the  hope  renewed  and  the  blessed  leaven 

Of  faith  in  an  hour  of  sore  distress ; 
For  the  helping  hand  and  the  cheery  word, 
When  the  soul  dropped  down  like  a  wounded  bird, 

And  Life  itself  were  but  sorry  guest. 

Tender  to  the  broken  heart,  as  mother  to  her  child ; 
Patient  with  the  impatient,  gentle  with  the  mild; 
Thundering  with  flaming  wrath  against  the  sin- 
defiled. 

For  a  sorrow  shared  and  a  lightened  burden, 
You  have  our  love  for  your  only  guerdon — 

A  meager  wage  for  a  task  laborious ; 
But  if  seed  you've  sown  should  sprout  and  flower, 
There'd  be  rejoicing  in  Heaven  this  hour, 

O'er  many  a  darkened  life  made  glorious. 


85 


ROADS  TO  ARCADY 

A  high  road  to  Arcady 

Lies  across  the  hills, 
Where  winds  are  free  and  riotous, 

And  golden  sunlight  spills — 
Like  wine  from  wide-mouthed  beakers 

Some  careless  Godling  fills — 
Adown  the  robes  of  living  green, 

That  to  their  gaunt  ribs  cling ; 
Along  the  road  to  Arcady 

We  go  a-gypsying. 

A  low  road  to  Arcady 

Hugs  the  river's  shore, 
Sentinelled  by  alder-clump 

And  ghostly  sycamore ; 
And  echoing  by  night  and  day 

The  flood's  resurgent  roar. 
And  all  along  its  flanks  at  dawn 

The  vampire  mist-wraiths  cling, 
And  haunt  the  road  to  Arcady 

We  go  adventuring. 

A  white  road  to  Arcady 

Runs  across  the  plain 
Between  high-serried  walls  of  maize, 

Soft  murmurous  waves  of  grain ; 
With  here  and  there  a  poppy-patch, 

Like  to  a  crimson  stain. 


And  there's  a  stretch  of  osage  hedge — 

A  linnet  in't  to  sing — 
Along  that  road  to  Arcady 

We  go  a-loitering. 

A  wood  road  to  Arcady 

(Arched  and  walled  with  green) 
Is  musical  with  choristers 

Behind  the  living  screen ; 
And  flakes  and  pools  of  sunlight  falls, 

The  moving  leaves  between. 
All  odorous  of  arbutus 

And  other  blooms  of  Spring, 
Is  the  wood-road  to  Arcady 

We  go  a- j  ourneying. 

The  one  road  to  Arcady 

May  be  a  city  street, 
Or  may  be  yet  the  country  lane 

That's  kind  to  wearied  feet, 
Or  yet  the  daisy-strewn  slope 

Where  field  and  forest  meet. 
Who'd  find  a  road  to  Arcady, 

Need  but  one  only  thing — 
However  rough  the  road  may  be — 

A  right  good  will  to  sing. 


87 


EPITAPH  FOR  AN  AMERICAN  SOLDIER 

He  was  some  mother's  well-loved  son — 
So  fine  he  looked  in  martial  guise — 
And  now  in  alien  earth  he  lies, 
And  hears  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 
Nor  sees  the  shell-flare  in  the  skies. 
Like  to  some  seeker  for  a  prize 
In  a  great  race  that  has  been  run, 
The  consciousness  of  duty  done, 
Looked  from  his  widely  opened  eyes. 

That  Freedom  have  a  newer  birth ; 
That  Truth,  and  Justice  only  reign ; 
That  Right  prevail  upon  the  earth ; 
Man's  upward  struggle  be  not  vain — 
For  this  he  sits  by  a  strange  hearth 
And  sentinels  the  Picard  plain. 


HIC  JACET 

THE  PROGRESSIVE  PARTY 

August  5,  1912— June  26,  1916 
(Sic  Transit  Gloria  Alces  Roosveltii) 

If  you  would  weep, 
Leave  you  your  tears  unshed ; 
If  you  would  mock, 


Leave  you  the  jest  unsaid. 
Too  great  a  thing  lies  buried  here 
For  foolish  word  or  futile  tear. 
It  was  the  Vision,  and  the  Dream ; 
It  was  the  Promise,  and  the  Gleam, 

And  it  is  dead! 

So  let  it  go, 
The  splendid  promise  of  its  birth 

All  unfulfilled; 

It  was  too  fine  a  thing  for  earth. 
The  million  jeer,  but  we  that  mourn 
Do  know  it  for  the  Heaven-born, 
And  come  to  earth  before  its  time, 
And  count  its  passing  as  a  crime, 
Now  it  is  dead. 


THE  GATHERING 

From  the  queer  little   towns   with  the   sounding 

names 

'Way  up  in  the  hills  or  'way  out  on  the  plains, 
They  went  marching  away  to  the  war. 

There  was  Bill  Jones,  from  Accokeek, 

Hard  by  the  Eastern  Sho' ; 
And  Luis  Rey,  from  San  Felipe, 


Will  ride  the  range  no  more. 
Old  Glo'ster  sends  a  fisher  lad 

Tom  Nickerson  'twould  be — 
To  sleep  in  an  Argonne  defile 

With  Red  Cloud,  of  Pine  Tree. 

Jim  Boone,  of  Breathitt  County, 

The  pride  of  Turkey  Track; 
And  Pierre  Lebon,  of  Beaver  Pond, 

Who  brought  no  right  arm  back. 
Nels  Nelson,  of  Good  Thunder; 

Sam  Parks,  of  Saco,  Maine — 
Were  "  buddies  "  there  in  Belleau  Wood, 

Though  they  ne'er  meet  again. 

Dick  Lee,  of  Shenandoah ; 

Jean  Lass,  of  Bayou  Scie, 
Were  at  Chateau-Thierry 

With  Si  Long,  of  Danbury. 
While  Terry  Wood,  of  Fergus  Falls ; 

Jack  Cameron,  of  Dyea ; 
And  Andy  Bark,  of  Estes  Park, 

Were  up  St.  Mihiel  way. 

O  best  little  towns  on  God's  green  earth, 

In  the  blood  of  your  sons  you  have  proven  your 

worth ; 
You  were  well  worth  dying  for ! 


90 


THE  WOMAN'S  PART 

"  Killed  in  action,"  the  message  read ; 
And  they  had  been  but  one  year  wed. 
No  brief,  accompanying  word  of  praise ; 
No  medal  for  the  neighbor's  gaze. 

She  could  not  picture  him  as  dead— 

Whose  farewell  kisses  thrilled  her  yet ; 
"  He  was  so  glad  of  life,"  she  said ; 

And  knowing  that  her  eyes  were  wet, 
For  very  pride  of  that  she  read — 

How  he  had  led  the  wild  onset, 
Falling,  as  the  foemen  fled, 

Dead  on  their  utmost  parapet. 

That  day  there  echoes  down  the  street 
The  trampling  of  the  homing  feet — 
There  will  be  none  for  her  to  greet. 

Her  vengeance  rises  like  a  flame ; 
Surely  they  ask  not  God  in  vain 
That  He  should  champion  the  weak  ? 
"  God,  give  them  to  the  eagle's  beak !  " 

His  face  smiles  on  her  from  the  wall ; 

His  son  it  is  upon  her  knee — 
He  was  so  splendid,  strong  and  tall, 

And  never  more  his  face  to  see ! 
91 


She  reads  the  meaning  of  it  all, 
The  weary  years  that  are  to  be ; 

And  says,  "  Nor  any  spring  or  fall 
Shall  ever  bring  him  back  to  me." 

Remembering  a  world  to  save 
From  arch-dominion  of  the  knave, 
The  woman's  part  is  to  be  brave. 


BEYOND  THE  GATE  OF  DREAMS 

Beyond  the  Gate  of  Dreams 
What  companions  have  I ! 

There  is  still  the  little  maid — 
Eyes  like  cornflowers  in  the  sun — 
As  in  other  days  we  played, 
So  we  race  and  so  we  run, 
Hand  in  hand  through  a  bright  mist 
Of  memories  of  days  we  kissed. 
Never  voice  to  call  us  home 
From  the  flow'ry  glades  we  roam. 

There  I  find  the  little  lad— 
Never  in  another  place — 
Always  laughing,  always  glad, 
Holding  all  of  childish  grace. 
As  the  dawn  on  snowy  peaks, 
92 


Is  the  bloom  upon  his  cheeks ; 
And  the  face  he  lifts  to  mine — 
Very  like,  O  wife,  to  thine ! 

There  I  have  the  friends  of  youth, 
Old  companions  of  old  ways. 

Time  has  spared  them  there  its  ruth ; 
Its  relentless  weight  of  days. 

There's  a  fair  green  countryside, 

Where  I  walk  with  they  beside ; 

And  at  cock-crow,  e'er  they  flee, 

All  their  faces  smile  on  me. 

In  a  dim-lit,  quiet  place, 

Scented  like  an  old  love-tune, 

Rich  with  beauties  of  her  grace, 
Bright  with  silver  of  the  moon ; 

Waits  the  dearest  shade  of  all. 

"  Mother !  mother !  "  loud  I  call, 

As  I  haste  to  lay  my  head 

On  the  breast  of  one  long  dead. 

Beyond  the  Gate  of  Dreams, 
Rare  companions  have  I ! 


93 


COMRADES 

From  out  the  dark  abyss  of  Time, 

What  visions  come  to  me ! 
You  tread  with  me  the  primal  clay ; 
Faithful  comrade  and  friend  alway, 
Brother-in-arms  in  the  battle-day, 

Ever  your  face  I  see. 
Since  man  first  emerged  from  the  slime, 
In  every  age,  in  every  clime, 

Never  apart  were  we. 

The  battle  wanes  at  Salamis, 
The  Grecian  ships  give  chase ; 

A  Persian  galley,  sinking  fast, 

Its  captain  by  the  reeling  mast 

Defiant,  one  last  javelin  cast, 
Straight-sped  into  your  face. 

Your  shield  was  down,  he  might  not  miss, 

I  rushed  before,  and  knew  it  bliss 
To  perish  in  your  place. 

When  Alexander  graced  the  feast 

In  Susa's  palace-hall, 
My  head  on  a  white  bosom  lay, 
And  wine  had  stolen  wit  away ; 
The  flames  were  reaching  for  their  prey, 

I  did  not  heed  your  call. 
You  would  not  leave  me — sodden  beast — 
But  chose  to  stay,  counting  life  least, 

And  friendship  most  of  all. 
94 


When  Antioch  held  high  revel, 

Beneath  the  Roman  sway, 
You  were  a  noble,  rich  and  great, 
And  plotted  'gainst  the  Roman  state ; 
I  was  the  beggar  at  your  gate; 

You  knew  me  not  that  day  : 
Yet  when  the  Roman  vengeance  fell, 
I  perished  with  you,  as  was  well — 

Such  was  the  Roman  way. 

Out  again  on  the  Serpent's  track 

The  long  ships  put  to  sea, 
Bound  for  the  sunny  Southern  shore 
To  harry  the  Christian  Frank  once  more ; 
Gay  we  tug  at  the  heavy  oar — 

Vikings  tall  are  we ! 
Then  in  the  roar  of  the  battle  wrack, 
Fighting  Berserk,  back  to  back, 

So  fades  that  memory. 

The  vision  comes  again,  and  this 

Is  Senlac's  stricken  field ; 
The  shield-wall's  broken,  Harold's  slain, 
The  Norman  arrows  fall  like  rain ; 
Dying,  as  fits  a  Saxon  thane, 

Who  scorns  to  flee  or  yield ; 
Impatient  for  the  bright  sword's  kiss  : 
When  through  the  bloody  battle-mist, 

Your  face  to  me's  revealed. 
95 


I  mount  with  you  a  ruined  wall ; 

"  God  wills  it !  "  is  the  cry. 
Godfrey's  knights,  in  battered  steel, 
Bloody  now  from  head  to  heel ; 
Before  the  Sepulchre  we  kneel, 

The  Moslem  dead  anigh. 
The  Crescent  standards  sink  and  fall ; 
The  Cross  is  triumphant  and  tall— 

And  doth  the  vision  die. 

The  records  of  the  Past  are  sped ; 

Now  is  the  seeming  real. 
Brothers  we  are  as  in  the  Past — 
The  olden  glamour  round  us  cast ; 
The  olden  bond  yet  holds  us  fast, 

As  'twere  a  bond  of  steel. 
Each  Golden  Day  behind  us  fled 
Is  presage  of  the  days  ahead 

That  Time  shall  yet  reveal. 


MY  JEWELS 

O  love,  the  hours  we  passed  together 

Are  but  a  Golden  Memory ; 
As  blue-bell  plucked  among  the  heather 

Doth  grace  a  lover's  treasury ; 
So  keep  I  in  a  secret  place 
The  jewelled  hours  that  frame  your  face, 
96 


'Twas  in  this  hour  that  we  met — 
Nearest  my  heart  'tis  worn — 

A  diamond  in  a  yellow  net, 
On  porphyry  base  upborne. 

Blue  as  the  blue  of  April  skies, 

But  not  so  blue  as  were  your  eyes. 

'Twas  in  this  hour  that  we  kissed — 

A  ruby,  wondrous  red, 
Paired  with  a  starry  amethyst 

And  set  in  golden  bed ; 
Passion  and  Purity,  to  be 
The  torture  and  delight  of  me. 

And  in  this  hour  we  parted,  dear ; 

A  perfect,  splendid  pearl — 
As  though  it  were  a  Goddess'  tear, 

Caught  in  a  shining  curl. 
I  keep  it  from  the  rest  apart, 
That  token  of  a  broken  heart. 

So  close  I  keep  them,  each  and  all, 

Safe  hidden  from  the  day ; 
Lest  Time's  rude  hand  upon  them  fall, 

Or  thief  should  steal  away; 
In  midnight  hour  to  con  them  o'er, 

And  vainly  wish  that  there  were  more. 


97 


ARAB  DEATH  SONG 

There's  lances  and  long  swords  far-flashing  in  the 

sun; 

A  good  fight,  a  last  fight,  and  Paradise  is  won. 
The  warm  sands,  the  black  sands,  shall  drink  the 

blood  of  me, 
To  rise  again  in  pomegranate,  or  golden  fruit  of 

tree. 

Allah  akbar !    God  is  great ! 
Who  am  I  to  rail  at  fate? 

There's  tall  sons,  and  strong  sons,  to  keep  the 

black  tents  well, 
And  pay  for  me   the  blood  debt,   and   send  the 

Giaour  to  hell. 
Oh,  let  them  never  mourn  for  me,  a  tryst  to-night 

I  keep ; 
On  the  breast  of  God's  Apostle  I  will  lay  my  head 

and  sleep. 

Allah  akbar !    God  is  great ! 
Who  am  I  to  rail  at  fate? 

There's     houris     two-and-seventy     awaiting    my 

demise ; 
Their  lips  are  flaming  coral  and  frankincense  and 

spice ; 
Their  bosoms  gleam  so  whitely,  their  breath  is  like 

to  musk, 
And  their  eyes  are  like  the  camp-fires  that  call  me 

home  at  dusk. 
Allah  akbar !  God  is  great ! 
Who  am  I  to  rail  at  fate  ? 
98 


THE  QUESTION 

Dear,  when  I  return  to  thee, 
In  a  coming  Golden  Day, 

What  shall  then  thy  greeting  be? 
Wilt  thou  bid  me  go  or  stay? 

For  the  burden  of  the  years, 
Shall  I  find  a  sweet  redress ; 

Recompense  for  all  my  tears 
In  thine  added  tenderness  ? 

Should  I  look  into  thine  eyes, 

And  no  answering  spark  be  there, 

Freedom  were  a  sorry  prize, 

Knowing  that  thou  didst  not  care, 

I  would  have  thee  greet  me  thus — 
As  of  lovers  parted  long — 

Remembering  the  olden  trust, 
Forgetful  of  the  ancient  wrong. 

Saying,  I  was  ever  brave ; 

Answering,  I  was  ever  true ; 
This  the  greeting  that  I  crave, 

Dear,  when  I  come  back  to  you. 


99 


R.  S.  V.  P. 

JULY,  1917 

What  will  you  say  when  a  child  shall  ask, 

What  did  you  in  the  world's  great  task? 

How  will  you  phrase  your  answer  then 

When  one  asks,  "  Were  you  of  Pershing's  men?  " 

How  will  you  look,  and  what  will  you  say 

When  others  tell  of  the  battle-day  ? 

Must  we  bow  our  heads  to  enduring  shame, 
While  our  brothers  win  to  a  deathless  fame? 
Shall  we,  who  are  ready  and  willing,  aye, 
Ready  and  willing  to  do  and  die, 
Be  denied  that  right  of  a  man  to  give 
All  that  he  hath  that  his  soul  may  live? 

Debtors  we  are  to  the  Law  we  broke, 
And  we  would  pay  in  the  battle-smoke 
For  all  that  was  done ;  make  payment  there 
On  deck,  or  in  breach,  or  the  upper  air ; 
Whether  to  life  or  to  death  we  win, 
We  would  be  free  of  the  stain  of  sin. 

If  it  be  death,  then  in  cause  like  this, 
Death  were  sweet  as  a  loved  one's  kiss ; 
If  it  be  life,  it  were  new-begun 
By  grace  of  a  heavy  task  well  done. 


100 


WHEN  WE  COME  HOME 

When  I  come  home,  O  mother  dear, 

I  would  that  no  one  else  be  near, 

For  I  would  be  the  boy  again 

And  have  you  comfort  me — as  then. 

I'd  have  my  bowl  of  milk-and-bread, 

And  see  white  sheets,  and  pillows  spread, 

Whereon  to  lay  my  weary  head. 

And  'neath  the  counterpane  I'd  creep, 

And  have  you  kiss  me,  ere  I'd  sleep. 

To  know  ourselves  no  more  alone, 

Is  our  reward  when  we  come  home. 

When  I  come  home  to  you,  my  wife, 

It  will  be  to  a  newer  life ; 

All  of  the  past  forgotten,  dead, 

And  we  young  lovers,  newly  wed. 

Then  I  shall  do  the  thing  you  ask, 

Take  up  with  you  the  daily  task; 

Happy  in  your  love  to  bask, 

And  walk  with  you  adown  the  years, 

The  while  the  Happy  ending  nears. 

For  grief  and  shame  that  we  have  known. 

There  will  be  love  when  we  come  home. 

When  I  come  home,  sweetheart  of  mine, 
To  greet  you,  as  in  olden  time, 
At  garden  gate ;  how  I  shall  thrill 
101 


To  see  you  waiting — as  you  will. 
Then  half  intoxicate  with  bliss 
At  being  free  of  place  like  this, 
To  steal  one  satisfying  kiss. 
Then  shall  begin  a  Happy  Day 
That  nevermore  shall  pass  away. 
For  weary  years  we  wait,  alone, 
There's  recompense  when  we  get  home. 


MY  MOTHER'S  SONGS 

Of  evenings,  ere  the  lamps  were  lit, 
'Twas  then  my  mother  used  to  sit 

And  croon  some  olden  strain ; 
And  I  a  laddie  at  her  knee — 
Oh,  would  to  God  that  I  could  be 

That  laddie  but  again  ! 
Half-hearing;  dreaming  of  the  sea; 
Wild  battles,  that  I  meant  to  be, 

A  knight  without  a  stain. 

The  crimson  flooded  all  the  west ; 

She  sang  the  songs  each  loved  the  best: 

"  Oh,  woe  to  Barbara  Allen !  " 
"  Three  times  around  went  that  gallant  ship ; 
And  in  my  sight  she  seemed  to  dip 

Her  proud  masts  downward  fallen. 
And  then,  as  Heaven's  lamps  hung  out, 
Starred  all  its  battlements  about : 

"  Jerusalem  the  golden." 
102 


Her  hand  caressed  my  drooping  head, 
"  'Tis  time  my  laddie  was  in  bed," 

She'd  say,  still  softly  singing: 
"  By  cool  Siloam's  shady  rill." 
And  I'd  beg  yet  another  still, 

Though  evening  bells  were  ringing; 
And  moon  swam  up,  such  golden  ball, 
As  on  blue  dish  that  I  let  fall 

While  to  the  table  bringing. 

And  I  can  see  her  still,  to-day, 
Rocking  in  the  moon's  soft  ray 

To  the  cadence  of  the  song: 
"  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul." 
All  the  bitter  years  unroll 

Before  me,  and  the  tale  of  wrong. 
O  mother,  mother,  did  you  know, 
When  you  sang  them  long  ago, 

They  would  bide  with  me  so  long? 

THE  JUSTICE  OF  MEN 

The  justice  of  men 

Is  naught ; 

With  gold 

It  is  to  be  sold 

And  bought ; 

And  he  that  hath  nor  gold  nor  friend 

Is  sure  of  that  lacking  to  be  condemned 

Of  the  justice  of  men. 
103 


The  justice  of  men 

I  see; 

The  great, 

Of  their  high  estate, 

Are  free. 

In  every  law  there's  a  postern-gate 

That  opens  but  to  the  rich  and  great — 

Oh,  the  justice  of  men! 

The  justice  of  men 

Is  vain; 

How  long, 

O  Lord,  shall  the  wrong 

Remain? 

The  cry  of  the  weak  goes  up  to  Thee ; 

O  Lord,  of  Thy  mercy,  make  us  free 

Of  the  justice  of  men! 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  "  McKENTYVILLE  " 

'Tis  the  Spirit  that  maketh  alive,  and  never  the 

Letter; 
You  may  dot  each  "  i  "  in  the  Law,  and  yet  be 

debtor ; 
It's    more    than    the    "  making    good " — it's    the 

making  better. 

104 


You  may  cleanse  yourself  of  your  stain,  of  your 

streak  of  yellow ; 
But  after  you've  helped  yourself,  will  you  give 

your  fellow 
A  helping  hand,  a  cheering  word,  and  a  smile  that's 

mellow  ? 

To  think  but  the  best  of  yourselves,  as  of  men  in 

the  making ; 
Of  the  goal  that  lieth  ahead;  of  the  day  that  is 

breaking ; 
To  smile  and  be  cheerful  still,  though  the  heart  be 

aching. 

To  let  not  the  battle  be  lost  for  the  lack  of  the 

trying — 
Was  there  ever  a  battle  was  won  by  just  moping 

and  sighing? 
'Tis   only  the  brave  and  the  steadfast  in  heart 

who'll  take  no  denying. 

To  strive,  with  tireless  hands  and  an  iron  will, 
To  fashion  a  future  good  from  a  by-gone  ill — 
Is  not  this  the  spirit  of  "  McKentyville  "? 


105 


THE  DESIRED  DOOR 

There's  golden  doors  of  palaces, 

Great  doors  and  high ; 
And  there's  the  shining  western  door 

The  sun  leaves  by. 
Full  many  a  splendid  portal 

Opes  to  cathedral  dome, 
But  my  eyes  are  eager  only 

For  the  little  door  of  home. 

Nor  carven  sill,  nor  lintel, 

Nor  bronze  leaves  subtly  swung 
On  hidden  golden  hinges 

And  moved  to  music's  tongue, 
Can  move  me  like  the  rude  door, 

With  clustered  blooms  above, 
That  frames  for  me  at  even' 

The  bright  face  of  my  love. 


TO  THE  BOY  CHORISTERS 
JUNE  6,  1920 

Adown  wood-lanes  that  the  violet  graces 
With  perfect  beauty  we  held  most  dear, 

And  fast  o'er  the  burning  desert  spaces, 

Where  the  wild  rose  blooms  in  the  spring  o'  th< 

year, 

106 


Over  the  waves  like  wild  horses  rearing, 
Flashing  manes  in  the  sunlight  tossed, 
We  would  go  hunting,  seeking,  peering — 
Hunting  that  that  we  lightly  lost. 

And  some  do  hear  a  bird-call 

From  tangled  greenery ; 
And  some  do  hear  the  wind's  call 

Racing  from  the  sea. 
And  some,  on  swift  wings  homing — 

O  days  of  long  ago — 
Do  hear  then  in  the  gloaming 

A  loved  voice  singing  low, 
"  But  me  and  my  true  love  will  never  meet  again 

On  the  bonnie,  bonnie  banks  of  Loch  Lomond.' 

0  laddies,  when  you're  grown  men 
And  walk  upright  and  strong, 

1  pray  you  do  remember  then 

Your  boy's  rich  gift  of  song ; 
And  how,  upon  a  day  in  June, 

You  sang  'mid  walls  and  bars, 
Till  we,  by  magic  of  your  tune, 

Looked  up  and  saw  the  stars. 


107 


MY  CASTLE  IN  SPAIN 

My  castle  in  Spain  is  the  heart  of  you; 
Its  walls  are  the  beauty  I  loved  and  knew ; 
Your  arms,  your  lips  are  its  towers  tall, 
And  its  garrison  is  your  kisses  all. 
The  splendid  banner  that  flies  above 
Is  the  wealth  of  your  sun-bright  hair,  my  love ; 
But  your  eyes  are  traitors  that  to  me  sold 
My  castle  in  Spain  to  have  and  hold. 

My  castle  in  Spain  has  golden  keys, 

Fashioned  of  olden  memories ; 

Memories  of  old  days  so  glad; 

Memories  of  your  love  I  had : 

Of  lips  that  yielded  and  arms  that  clung ; 

A  voice  that  ever  the  lark  outsung ; 

Of  your  April  eyes  and  your  tresses  gold, 

In  my  castle  in  Spain  I  have  and  hold. 


UNFINISHED 

The  tapestry  hangs  on  my  wall, 
Hints  at  romance  fair  begun ; 

But  hath  no  issue  of  it  all — 

And  would  I  knew  young  love  had  won. 

Haply  it  limns  a  lady's  day — 
Some  hours  of  a  crowded  life — 

I  would  not  undertake  to  say 
If  she  were  widow,  maid,  or  wife. 
108 


There's  slender  train  of  incidents 

That  might  have  chanced  to  any  such ; 

Who  kept — but  not  too  strictly — Lents, 
And  loved — but  never  overmuch. 

The  knight  rides  by  the  lady's  bower — 
The  jessed  hawk  balanced  on  his  wrist ; 

And  later,  where  the  dogwoods  flower — 
The  hawk's  prey  all  forgot — they  kissed, 

It  might  be  in  some  princely  joust, 

Or  ordeal,  or  battle  grim, 
Like  thunderbolts  the  knights  are  loosed — 

It  might  be  for  her  weal  or  whim. 

Methinks  the  lady  blushed  and  glanced 

Aside ;  the  barriers  let  fall — 
It  tells  no  more  of  what  then  chanced, 

The  tapestry  hangs  on  my  wall. 


THE  MIRACLE  MAN 

"  Let  there  be  Light." 

Is  man's  word  of  might. 
Men  harness  them  then  wild  waterfall ; 
Rear  concrete  buttress  and  granite  wall, 

That  it  dance  no  more  in  a  giddy  reel, 
109 


But  lend  its  strength  to  the  turning  wheel. 

A  task  is  set  that  it  may  not  scamp ; 

That  the  might  of  a  thousand  horses  ramp — 

Untamed  as  coursers  of  the  Sun, 

That  in  their  harness  leap  and  run — 

Through  every  glittering,  golden  thread 

Of  the  ever-widening  web  that's  spread 

And  lies  obedient  to  his  hand — 

Mightier  than  magician's  wand 

Is  the  hand  of  the  blue-clad  engineer — 

Who  hurls  a  luminous,  flashing  spear 

Into  the  dark  e'er  the  day  be  sped ; 

While  yet  the  Door  of  the  West  is  red 

Of  the  sun's  passing ;  over  all, 

City  and  hamlet,  cot  and  hall, 

A  shining  garment  of  light  is  flung — 

Their  ways  with  jewels  thickly  strung. 

That  dull  street  leading  to  the  park, 

Like  flaming  ribbon  loops  the  dark ; 

The  Babel  towers  that  scale  the  skies 

Stare  with  insolent,  golden  eyes 

Across  the  darkling  roofs  below 

Like  giants  at  a  pygmy  show. 

Prometheus  of  modern  time, 

Almost  your  miracle's  divine ! 


110 


THE  WOMAN  O'T 

I  have  had  two  lovers — I, 
That  had  eyes  like  April's  sky; 
And  the  cheek's  damask  that's  gone 
Once  had  put  to  blush  the  dawn. 

Both  kissed  me — one  stayed  to  wed ; 
Twenty-and-two  years  are  sped ; 
And  my  heart  enshrines  to-day, 
He  that  kissed  and  rode  away. 


EXCEPT  THE  LIGHT  KEEP  THE  CITY 

All  its  golden  lamps  alight, 
The  Avenue  is  gay  to-night. 

Where  the  city's  restless  tides 
Flow  between  the  shining  guides. 

Should  those  gleaming  lamps  go  black, 
Who  could  vision  all  the  wrack? 

See  the  terror,  grim  and  stark, 
That  might  walk  there  in  the  dark. 

Haply  beacons  would  be  lit, 

Such  as  we'd  not  have  on  it. 
Ill 


Haply  lights  would  flower  there, 
Such  as  we  would  gladly  spare. 

All  that  far-flung  line  of  lights, 
Keep  good  watch  for  us  of  nights. 


THAT  "  SADDEST  WORD  "  APPLIES 

(Written  after  reading  Clarence  Day,  Jr.'s  "  This 

Simian  World.") 

I  had  but  pounced  upon  a  rat ; 
So  young  it  was  and  sleekly  fat, 
I  quivered  all  my  length  with  joy, 
And  for  a  moment  thought  to  toy 
With  it  ere  giving  coup  de  grace. 
(Should  I  or  should  I  not  release; 
And  if  I  should,  would  it  increase 
And  yield  yet  richer  harvest  when 
My  time  had  come  to  catch  again?) 
And  then  I  looked  upon  her  face ! 

Fancy  the  purest  Persian  blood 
Imposed  on  rich  Angora's  flood 
And  the  result ;  and  you  have  her. 
Wrapped  in  such  silken,  snowy  fur, 
One  might  not  tire  of  touching  soft, 

Till  arching  spine  and  tail  aloft 
112 


Proclaimed  surrender ;  and  her  eyes, 
So  golden,  lambent,  shot  with  dyes 
Of  emerald  and  creme  de  menthe, 
Approved  intruder  on  her  haunt. 

I  thought  no  more  of  late-prized  prey ; 
My  claws  relaxed — it  fled  away. 
I  purred  soft  question — she  replied — 
(And  I'd  a  swift  conceit;  she  sang, 
And  from  those  clustered  stars  that  hang 
From  Heaven's  battlements  to  hear, 
One  fell  far-flashing  down  the  sheer 
Abyss,  to  die  in  vivid  flame 
Before  her;  so  might  one  attain.) 
And  sudden  I  was  by  her  side. 

Plainly  the  languorous  tail  expressed 
The  flame  enkindled  in  her  breast — 
Oh,  curses  on  that  morn  dew-pearled 
That  woke  me  to  this  simian  world ! 


WASHINGTON  TO  AMERICA 

At  your  birth  was  counselled  caution, 
Lest  you  make  you  enemies ; 

It  was  not  for  babes  to  venture 
Out  upon  such  troubled  seas. 
113 


It  is  well  youth  should  be  modest, 
And  usurp  not  manly  place; 

But  who  would  have  manhood  fearful 
To  discover  Duty's  face? 

Unto  you  hath  much  been  given, 
Do  you  then  expect  to  bask 

In  the  sun  of  your  importance 
And  be  free  of  manly  task? 

To  both  small  and  great  of  nations 
Hath  a  work  been  given  to  do ; 

Can  you  shirk  that  task  appointed 
And  to  heritage  be  true? 

To  such  service  were  you  fashioned ; 

To  such  end  your  fathers  wrought ; 
Would  you  then  make  vain  their  labors, 

Have  them  give  so  much  for  naught? 

Shall  that  flame  your  fathers  kindled 
On  your  altars  sink  and  die? 

Are  you  fain  to  see  extinguished, 
The  torch  that  they  lifted  high? 

First  are  you  among  the  nations — 
Beautiful  and  tall  and  strong — 
Trusted  by  the  Little  Peoples 

That  you  will  not  work  them  wrong. 
114 


Free  of  lust  of  wide  dominion, 
Free  of  hatred,  fear  and  greed ; 

Now  is  come  your  time  of  service ; 
Now  it  is  your  hour  to  lead. 

There  are  many  who  would  follow, 
And  you  will  but  lead  the  van ; 

In  earth's  hour  of  utmost  travail, 
It  behooves  you  play  the  man. 

And  your  fathers,  and  your  mothers, 

Parents  to  an  eagle  brood, 
Seeing  strong  wings  flashing  sunward, 

They  shall  know  their  work  was  good, 


NOCTURNE 

Golden  the  firefly's  spark,  half-quenched  in  dew; 
Golden  the  stream  of  stars  flows  through  the  blue ; 
Plaintive  the  nightjar's  call,  wailing  its  mate; 
O  Philomela,  and  wherefore  do  you  wait? 
Milk-white    your    shoulders,    dear;    whiter    your 

breast ; 

On  such  silken  pillow  a  king's  head  might  rest. 
Sleep,  then,  all  odorous  of  myrrh  and  musk, 
My  Rose  of  all  the  world,  the  dusk,  the  dusk ! 

115 


ENOUGH'S  ENOUGH 

"  Last  week  it  was  a  general  come, 

'N'  stays  all  of  a  minute, 
Explainin'  t'  me  how  he'll  run 

Th'  Government  when  in  it ! 

A  colonel  looked  me  up  next  day, 

T'  say  that  it's  expected 
I'll  vote  for  him ;  of  course — an'  say, 

I  hope  he  ain't  elected ! 

Some  captains  and  lieutenants  wrote, 
Explainin'  that  th'  war  was  won 

Th'  minute  that  they  had  my  vote — 
Just  let  them  start  another  one! 

It's  just  my  luck  that  I  ain't  in, 
Th'  day  that  my  old  sarge'  appears 

And  leaves  word  I  should  vote  for  him — 
Not  in  eleven  million  years! 

If  I  was  in  th'  army  yet 

I'd  draw  ten  days'  K.  P.,  or  worse, 
Because  they  ain't  none  goin'  t'  git 

My  vote,  unless  it  may  be  my  old  nurse ! 


116 


ART  IS  LONG 

Since  first  Cleopatra's  barge 
Waited  by  the  Cydnus'  marge 
For  Antony,  the  poets  tell — 
Sometimes  poorly,  sometimes  well- 
Of  a  net  that  does  not  fail, 
Spread  in  sight  of  any  male, 
To  enmesh,  and  hold  him  fast 
Now,  as  in  the  storied  past. 
Fashioned  of  such  trickeries, 
Make  men  do  as  women  please. 
Glance  that  soft  caress  implies, 
Flashed  from  half-averted  eyes ; 
Touch  of  hand  and  touch  of  lip 
Lash  like  to  Flagellant's  whip ; 
Turn  of  dress  or  ornament 
May  be  subtle  message  sent ; 
All's  meant  to  be  understood — 
You  might  conquer  and  you  would. 
Cleopatra  knew  no  more 
Than  the  woman  lives  next  door. 


THE  MOTHER  OF  INSPIRATION 

There's  no  money  for  the  baker, 
Butcher,  or  walking-stick  maker ; 

I  must  write  a  villanelle. 
117 


There's  my  wife — and  I  can't  tell 
How  she  manages  so  well ; 

There's  no  money  for  the  baker. 

There's  the  baby — must  not  wake  her, 
Else  I'll  surely  have  to  take  her ; 
7  must  write  a  villanelle. 

There's  the  landlord — he  would  sell, 
Claiming  rent  collecting's — well, 
There's  no  money  for  the  baker. 

There's  the  coveted  home-acre 
Out  Hempstead  way — waits  a  taker ; 
I  must  write  a  villanelle. 

There's  the  useless  cocktail  shaker, 

Speaking  like  alarum  bell. 
There's  no  money  for  the  baker, 

I  must  write  a  villanelle. 


AT  TWILIGHT 

Day's  death,  and  a  dusky  room,  and  a  memory  of 

you; 
With  two  gold  stars  in  the  zenith  lit,  like  your  eyes 

peering  through. 
Never  a  breeze  to  stir  the  grass,  and  yet  is  wafted 

there 

118 


"  Odor  of  spice  and  all  that's  nice,"  like  to  your 

scented  hair. 
Never  a  homeward  droning  bee,  yet  all  about  me 

runs, 
Whisper  of  speech  of  each  to  each,  like  to  the  sound 

of  drums. 

THAT  LITTLE  FLOCK 

There  were  twelve  of  a  congregation : 

One  had  gone  for  a  walk, 

And  one  tires  so  very  easily ; 

One  had  been  brought  by  his  wife, 

Who  took  her  religion  hardly ; 

And  two  were  beginning  lovers, 

And  one  was  spying  upon  them. 

One  had  come  for  a  nap — 

He  loved  the  rolling  of  syllables, 

So  like  to  the  rain  on  the  roof 

That  lulled  him  to  sleep  in  childhood. 

Two  were  there  to  strengthen 

The  minister's  orthodoxy — 

For  them  there  was  no  sleeping. 

And  one  was  seeking  warmth — 

An  usher  watching  him  darkly. 

And  one  took  pains  to  exhibit 

The  latest  Paris  "  creation." 

And  one  old-fashioned  creature 

Had  actually  come  to  worship ! 

There  were  twelve  of  the  congregation. 


119 


HEAR,  O  ISRAEL! 

An  eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth, 

Is  the  master-call  of  greed ; 
The  shibboleth  of  an  olden  god — 

The  cry  of  an  outworn  creed. 
To  exact  a  life  for  the  life  that's  lost, 

Will  it  make  the  balance  true? 
Rather  the  doubly  weigh  it  down — 

Will  an  old  lamp  purchase  a  new? 

"  NEVER  TO  SLEEP  AGAIN  " 

That  desert  where  once  magic  carpet  plied, 
That    Shishak's    hosts    traversed — where    Hagar 

cried ; 

Is  rated  now  "  a  nasty  bit  o'  road," 
Where  oft  the  lorry  driver  damns  his  load. 

A  motor-launch  slips  coughing  through  the  reeds, 
It's  pilot  cursing  all  new-fangled  "feeds  " 
He'd  just  been  left  poor  "  second  "  in  a  race- 
To  tie  at  Semiramis'  bathing  place. 

Where    long    the    twin-humped    Bactrian    camels 

trode, 

Hard  on  each  other's  heels,  with  costly  load 
Of  silks  and  spices  out  of  Samarcand ; 
The  "  steel  horse  "  trails  dark  plumes  across  the 

sand. 

Adown  that  air  where  rebellious  afreet 
Warred  with  jinnee  yet  loyal,  swoop  the  fleet 
120 


War-birds,  whose  thunderbolts  let  slip, 
Serve  well  to  rivet  fast  the  new-times  grip. 

FALSE  DAWN 

A  memory  of  yesterday : 
I  rose  betimes  to  greet  the  day — 
The  morrow  was  my  wedding-morn, 
When  all  my  world  would  be  reborn — 
And  from  my  casement  looking  out, 
Saw  all  the  darkness  put  to  rout 
Before  the  sun-god's  majesty, 
New-risen  from  the  girdling  sea. 
And  the  white  road  across  the  moor 
Was  straight  a  Gateway  of  Romance — 
My  knight  might  ride  with  couchen  lance. 

Down  that  road  of  gold  there  came 
A  gypsy  lad  with  face  aflame 
With  the  sun's  gold — and  all  his  hair ; 
And  oh!  right  boldly  did  he  stare, 
Till  eye  met  eye,  and  then  I  knew 
In  all  the  world  was  but  we  two ; 
And  so  had  been  since  first  we  met 
In  some  far  day  I'd  not  forget. 
I  know  not  was  I  slave  or  queen, 
Nor  cared  I,  knowing  I  had  been 
His  true  love  in  a  day  long  past, 
And  we  had  met — too  late — at  last. 
The  morrow  is  my  wedding-morn, 
When  all  my  world  will  be  reborn. 

END 


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